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f 5 ^ . d 


TIE  SOKKOWS  OF  YOUNG  WEETIEE. 


I HAVE  carefully  collected  whatever  I have  been  able  to 
learn  of  the  stor'v  of  poor  Werther,  and  here  present  it  to 
you,  knowing  vou  will  thank  me  for  it.  To  his  spirit 
and  chai'actc  ' ■■'’Hou  and  love: 

to  h.s  fate 
Aud 
end 

T 


10 


SOKKOWS  OF  WERTHER. 


me  the  past.  No  doubt  you  are  right,  my  best  of  fiiends, 
there  would  be  far  less  sutfering  amongst  mankind,  if  men  — 
and  God  knows  why  ti.e3"  are  so  fashioned  — did  not  employ 
their  imaginations  so  assiduously  in  recalling  the  mempr}’  of 
past  sorrow,  instead  of  bearing  their  present  lot  with  equa- 
nimity. 

Be  kind  enough  to  inform  my  mother  that  I shall  attend  to 
her  business  to  the  best  of  my  abilit}",  and  shall  give  her  the 
earliest  information  about  it.  I have  c-een  m}’  aunt,  and  find 
that  she  is  veiy  far  f;-om  being  the  disagreeable  person  our 
fiiends  allege  her  to  be.  She  is  a livel}',  cheerful  wo  nan, 
with  the  best  of  hearts.  I explained  to  her  my  mother’s 
wrongs  with  regard  to  that  part  of  her  portion  which  has 


SOKROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


11 


Mat»10. 

A wonderful  serenity  has  taken  possession  of  my  entire 
soul,  like  these'Sweet  mornings  of  spring  which  I enjoj'  with 
my  w’hole  heart.  'T'aHrSsngf^ndlfeel  the  charm  of  existence 
in  this  spot,  which  was  created  for  the  bliss  of  souls  like 
mine.  I am  so  happy,  my  dear  friend,  so  absorbed  in  tlie 
exquisite  sense  of  mere  tranquil  existence,  that  I neglect  mv 
talents.  I should  be  incapable  of  ch:aTdng  a single  stroke  at 
the  present  moment ; and  yet  I feel  that  roever  was  a greater 
artist  than  now.._  When,  while  the  Idi^elj’  valle}'  teems  witli 
vapor  around  me,  and  die  meridian  sun  strikes  the  upper 
surface  of  the  impenetrable  foliage  of  my  trees,  and  but  a 
few'  stray  gleams  steal  into  the  inner  sanctuaiy,  1 throw' 
myself  down  among  the  tall  grass  bj-  the  trickling  stream  ; 
and,  as  I lie  close  to  the  earth,  a thousand  unknown  plants 
are  noticed  by  me  : when  I hear  the  buzz  of  the  little  world 
among  the  stalks,  and  grow  famdliar  with  the  countless  inde- 
scribable forms  of  the  insects  and  flies,  then  I feel  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Almighty,  who  formed  us  in  his  own  image,  and 
the  breath  of  that  universal  love  which  bears  and  sustains  us, 
as  it  floats  around  us  in  an  eternity  of  bliss  ; and  then,  my 
friend,  when  darkness  overspreads  my  e}’es,  and  heaven  and 
earth  seem  to  dwell  in  my  soul  ancl  absorb  its  power,  like 
the  form  of  a beloved  mistress, — then  I often  think  with 
longing,  Oh,  would  I could  describe  these  conceptions,  could 
impress  upon  paper  all  that  is  living  so  full  and  warm  within 
me,  that  it  might  be  the  mirror  of  my  soul,  as  m}'  soul  is  the 
mirror  of  the  infinite  God ! O my  friend  — but  it  is  too 
much  for  my  strength  — I sink  under  the  weight  of  the 
splendor  of  these  visions  ! 

May  12. 

I know  not  whether  some  deceitful  spirits  haunt  this  spot, 
or  whether  it  be  the  w'ai’m,  celestial  fancy  in  my  own  heart 
which  makes  everything  around  me  seem  like  paradise.  In 
front  of  the  house  is  a fountain,  — a fountain  to  which  I am 
bound  by  a charm  like  Melusina  and-  her  sisters.  Descend- 
ing a gentle  slope,  you  come  to  an  arch,  w'here,  some  tw'euty 
steps  lower  down,  water  of  the  clearest  crystal  gushes  from 
the  marble  rock.  The  narrow  w'all  which  encloses  it  above, 
the  tall  trees  which  encircle  the  spot,  and  the  coolness  of  the 
place  itself,  — every  thing  imparts  a pleasant  but  sublime  im- 
pression. Not  a day  passes  on  which  I do  not  spend  an  hour 
there.  The  youpg  maidens  come  from  the  town  to  fetch 


12 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


water, — innocent  and  necessarj'  employment,  and  formerly 
the  occupation  of  the  daughters  of  kings.  As  I take  my 
rest  there,  the  idea  of  the  old  patriarchal  life  is  awakened 
around  me.  I see  them,  our  old  ancestors,  how  they  fonned 
their  friendships  and  contracted  alliances  at  the  fountain- 
side  ; and  I feel  how  fountains  and  streams  were  guarded 
by  beneficent  spirits.  He  who  is  a stranger  to  these  sensa- 
tions has  never  really  enjoyed  cool  repose  at  the  side  of  a 
fountain  after  the  fatigue  of  a weary  summer  day. 


Mat  13. 

You  ask  if  you  shall  send  me  books.  My  dear  friend,  I 
beseech  you,  for  the  love  of  God,  relieve  me  from  such  a 
yoke  ! I need  no  more  to  be  guided,  agitated,  heated.  My 
heart  ferments  sufficiently  of  itself.  I want  strains  to  lull 
me,  and  I find  them  to  perfection  in  my  Homer.  Often  do  I 
strive  to  allay  the  burning  fever  of  m\'  blood ; _and  you  have 
never  witnessed  any  thing  so  jiusteady,  so  uncertain,  as  my 
heart.  But  need  I confess  this  to  3’bu,  my  d^’  friend,  who 
have  so  often  endured  the  anguish  of  witnessing  mi’  sudden 
transitions  from  sorrow  to  immoderate  joj^,  and  from  sweet 
melancholy  to  violent  passions  ? I ti’eat  my  poor  heart  like  a 
sick  child,  and  gratify  its  eveiy  fancy.  Do  not  mention  this 
again  : there  are  people  who  would  censure  me  for  it. 

Mat  15. 

The  common  people  of  the  place  know  me  already,  and 
love  me,  particularly  the  children.  When  at  first  I associated 
with  them,  and  inquired  in  a friendty  tone  about  their  various 
trifles,  some  fancied  that  I wished  to  ridicule  them,  and 
turned  from  me  in  exceeding  ill-humor.  I did  not  allow  that 
circumstance  to  grieve  me  : I only  felt  most  keenh'  ^\■hat  I 
have  often  before  observed.  Persons  who  can  claim  a r-ertaiu 
rank  keep  themselves  coldly  aloof  from  the  common  people, 
as  though  the}"  feared  to  lose  their  importance  bj"  the  contact ; 
whilst  wanton  idlers,  and  such  as  are  prone  to  bad  joking, 
aft'ect  to  descend  to  their  level,  onh'  to  make  the  poor  people 
feel  their  impertinence  all  the  more  keen!}'. 

I know  very  well  that  we  are  not  all  equal,  nor  can  ’je  so ; 
but  it  is  m}"  opinion  that  he  who  avoids  the  common  peojjle, 
in  order  not  to  lose  their  respect,  is  as  much  to  blame  as  a 
coward  who  hides  himself  from  his  enemy  because  he  fears 
defeat. 

The  other  day  I went  to  the  fountain,  and  found  a young 


SORKOWS  OF  'WERTHER. 


13 


servant-girl,  who  had  set  her  pitcher  on  the  lowest  step,  and 
looked  round  to  see  if  one  of  her  companions  was  approach- 
ing to  place  it  on  her  head.  I ran  down,  and  looked  at  her. 
“Shall  I help  you,  pretty  lass?”  said  I.  She  blushed 
deeply.  “Oh,  sir!”  she  exclaimed  “No  ceremon}' ! ” I 
replied.  She  adjusted  her  head-gear,  and  I helped  her.  She 
thanked  me,  and  ascended  the  steps. 

Mat  17. 

I have  made  aU  sorts  of  acquaintances,  but  have  as  3’et 
found  no  society.  I know  not  what  attraction  I possess  for 
the  people,  so  many  of  them  like  me,  and  attach  themselves 
to  me ; and  then  I feel  sorry  when  the  road  W'e  pursue 
together  goes  onlj'  a short  distance.  If  j'ou  inquire  what 
the  people  are  like  here,  I must  answer,  “The  same  as  ^ 
everywhere.”  The  human  race  is  but  a monotonous  affair. 
Most  of  them  labor  the  greater  part  of  them  time  for  mere  sub- 
sistence ; and  the  scanty  portion  of  freedom  which  remains 
to  them  so  troubles  them  that  they  use  every  exertion  to  get 
rid  of  it.  Oh,  the  destiny  of  man ! 

But  they  are  a right  good  sort  of  people.  If  I occasion- 
ally forget  myself,  and  take  part  in  the  innocent  pleasures 
which  are  not  j-et  forbidden  to  the  peasantry,  and  enjoy 
myself,  for  instance,  with  genuine  freedom  and  sincerity, 
round  a well-covered  table,  or  arrange  an  excursion  or  a 
dance  opportunely,  and  so  forth,  all  this  produces  a good 
effect  upon  my  disposition  ; onty  I must  forget  that  there  lie 
dormant  within  me  so  rnanj"  other  qualities  which  moulder 
uselessty,  and  which  I am  obliged  to  keep  carefully  con- 
cealed. Ah  ! this  thought  affects  my  spirits  fearfully.  And 
yet  to  be  misunderstood  is  the  fate  of  the  like  of  us. 

Alas,  that  the  friend  of  mj"  youth  is  gone  I Alas,  that  I 
ever  knew  her  ! I might  say  to  nyself,  “You  are  a dreamer 
to  seek  what  is  not  to  be  found  here  below.”  But  she  has 
been  mine.  I have  possessed  that  heart,  that  noble  soul,  in 
whose  presence  I seemed  to  be  more  than  I really  was, 
because  I was  all  that  I could  be.  Good  heavens  ! did  then 
a single  power  of  my  soul  remain  unexercised?  In  her 
presence  could  I not  displa}^,  to  its  full  extent,  that  mysteri- 
ous feeling  with  which  my  heart  embraces  nature  ? IVas  not 
our  intercourse  a perpetual  web  of  the  finest  emotions,  of  the 
keenest  wit,  the  varieties  of  which,  even  in  their  very  eccen- 
tricity, bore  the  stamp  of  genius  ? Alas ! the  few  years  by 
which  she  was  my  senior  brought  her  to  the  grave  before 


14 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


me.  Never  can  I forget  her  firm  mind  or  her  heavenly 
patience. 

A few  clays  ago  I met  a certain  young  V , a frank, 

open  fellow,  with  a most  pleasing  countenance.  He  has  just 
left  the  university,  does  not  deem  himself  overwise,  but 
believes  he  knows  more  than  other  people.  He  has  worked 
hard,  as  I can  perceive  from  many  circumstances,  aud,  in 
short,  possesses  a large  stock  of  information.  When  he 
heard  that  I am  drawing  a good  deal,  and  that  I know  Greek 
(two  wonderful  things  for  this  part  of  the  countiy),  he  came 
to  see  me,  aud  displayed  his  whole  store  of  learning,  from 
Batteaux  to  Wood,  from  De  Piles  to  Winkelmann  ; he  assured 
me  he  had  read  through  the  first  part  of  Sultzer’s  theory,  and 
also  possessed  a manuscript  of  Heyne’s  work  on  the  stud}-  of 
the  antique.  I allowed  it  all  to  pass. 

I have  become  acquainted,  also,  with  a very  worthy  per- 
son, the  district  judge,  a frank  and  open-hearted  man.  I am 
told  it  is  a most  delightful  thing  to  see  him  in  the  midst  of 
his  children,  of  whom  he  has  nine.  His  eldest  daughter 
especially  is  highly  spoken  of.  He  has  invited  me  to  go  aud 
see  him,  and  I intend  to  do  so  on  the  first  opportunity.  He 
lives  at  one  of  the  royal  hunting-lodges,  which  can  be  reached 
from  here  in  an  hour  aud  a half  by  walking,  aud  which  he 
obtained  leave  to  inhabit  after  the  loss  of  his  wife,  as  it  is  so 
-painful  to  him  to  reside  in  town  and  at  the  court. 

There  have  also  come  in  my  way  a few  other  originals  of 
a questionable  sort,  who  are  in  all  respects  undesirable,  and 
most  intolerable  in  their  demonstrations  of  frieudshij).  Good- 
by,  This  letter  will  please  you  : it  is  quite  historical. 

May  22. 

That  the  life  of  man  is  but  a dream,  many  a man  has  sur- 
mised heretofore  ; and  I,  too,  am  everywhere  pursued  by  this 
feeling.  When  I consider  the  narrow  limits  within  which  our 
active  and  inquiring  faculties  are  confined ; when  I see  how 
all  our  energies  are  wasted  in  providing  for  mere  necessi- 
ties, which  again  have  no  further  end  than  to  prolong  a 
wretched  existence  ; and  then  that  aU  our  satisfaction  con- 
cerning certain  subjects  of  investigation  ends  in  nothing 
better  than  a passive  resig-natiou,  whilst  we  amuse  ourselves 
painting  our  prison-walls  with  bright  figures  and  brilliant 
/ landscapes,  — when  I consider  all  this,  Wilhelm,  I am  silent. 
I I examine  my  own  being,  and  find  there  a world,  but  a world 
rather  of  imagination  and  dim  desires,  than  of  distinctness 


15 


y SORROWS  OF  WERTIIER. 

and  living  power.  Then  every  thing  swims  before  my  senses,  ^ 
and  I smile  and  dream  while  pursuing  my  way  through  the 
world. 

All  learned  professors  and  doctors  are  agreed  that  children 
do  not  comprehend  the  cause  of  their  desires  ; but  that  the 
grown-up  should  wander  about  this  earth  like  children,  with- 
out knowing  whence  they  come,  or  whither  they  go,  influenced 
as  little  by  fixed  motives,  but  guided  like  them  bj'  biscuits, 
sugar-plums,  and  the  rod,  — this  is  what  nobody  is  willing  to 
acknowledge  ; and  yet  I think  it  is  palpable. 

I know  what  you  will  say  in  reply  ; for  I am  ready  to 
admit  that  they  are  happiest,  who,  like  children,  amuse 
themselves  with  their  playthings,  dress  and  undress  their 
dolls,  and  attentiveh'  watch  the  cupboard,  where  mamma  has 
locked  up  her  sweet  things,  and,  when  at  last  they  get  a 
delicious  morsel,  eat  it  greedily,  and  exclaim,  “More!” 
These  are  certainlj'  happy  beings  ; but  others  also  are  objects 
of  envy,  who  dignify  their  paltry  emplojunents,  and  some- 
times even  their  passions,  with  pompous  titles,  representing 
them  to  mankind  as  gigantic  achievements  performed  for 
their  welfare  and  glory.  But  the  man  who  humbly  acknowl- 
edges the  vanity  of  all  this,  who  observes  with  what  pleasure 
the  thriving  citizen  converts  his  little  garden  into  a paradise, 
and  how  patiently  even  the  poor  man  pursues  his  weary  wa}’ 
under  his  burden,  and  how  all  wish  equall}'  to  behold  the 
light  of  the  sim  a little  longer,  — yes,  such  a man  is  at  peace, 
and  creates  his  own  world  within  himself;  and  he  is  also 
happy,  because  he  is  a man.  And  then,  however  limited  his 
sphere,  he  still  preserves  in  his  bosom  the  sweet  feeling  of 
libertjq  and  knows  that  he  can  quit  his  prison  whenever  he 
likes. 

May  26. 

You  know  of  old  my  ways  of  settling  anywhere,  of  select- 
ing a little  cottage  in  some  cosey  spot,  and  of  putting  up  in  it 
with  every  inconvenience.  Here,  too,  I have  discovered  such 
a snug,  comfortable  place,  which  possesses  peculiar  charms 
for  me. 

About  a league  from  the  town  is  a place  called  WalheimT 
It  is  delightfully  situated  on  the  side  of  a hill ; and,  by  pi'O- 
ceeding  along  one  of  the  footpaths  which  lead  out  of  the 
village,  you  can  have  a view  of  the  whole  valley.  A good 

* The  reader  need  not  ^afce  the  trouble  to  look  for  the  place  thus  designated. 
We  have  found  it  necessary  to  change  the  names  given  in  the  original. 


16 


SORRO’WS  OF  WERTHER. 


old  woman  lives  there,  who  keeps  a small  inn.  She  sells 
wine,  beer,  and  cofiee,  and  is  cheerful  and  pleasant  notwith- 
standing her  age.  The  chief  charm  of  this  spot  consists  in 
two  linden-trees,  spreading  their  enormous  branches  over  the 
little  green  before  the  church,  which  is  entirely  surrounded 
by  peasants’  cottages,  barns,  and  homesteads.  I have  sel- 
dom seen  a place  so  retired  and  peaceable ; and  there  often 
have  my  table  and  chair  brought  out  from  the  little  inn,  and 
driuk  my  coffee  there,  and  read  my  Homer.  Accident  brought 
me  to  the  spot  one  fine  afternoon,  and  I found  it  perfectly 
deserted.  Eveiybody  was  in  the  fields  except  a little  boy 
about  four  years  of  age,  who  was  sitting  on  the  ground,  and 
held  between  his  knees  a child  about  six  months  old : he 
pressed  it  to  his  bosom  with  both  arms,  which  thus  formed  a 
sort  of  arm-chair  ; and,  notwithstanding  the  liveliness  which 
sparkled  in  its  black  eyes,  it  remained  perfectly  still.  The 
sight  charmed  me.  I sat  down  upon  a plough  opposite,  and 
sketched  with  great  delight  this  little  picture  of  brotherly 
tenderness.  I added  the  neighboring  hedge,  the  barn-door, 
and  some  broken  cart-wheels,  just  as  the}'  happened  to  lie ; 
and  I found  in  about  an  hour  that  I had  made  a very  correct 
and  interesting  drawing,  without  putting  in  the  slightest 
thing  of  my  own.  This  confirmed  me  in  m3'  resolution  of 
adhering,  for  the  futiireT'^fii'el}'  to  nature.  She  alone  is 
inexhaustible,  and  capable  of  forming  the  greatest  masters. 
Much  may  be  alleged  iu  favor  of  rules,  as  much  ma}’  lie  like- 
wise advanced  in  favor  of  the  laws  of  society  : an  artist 
formed  upon  them  will  never  produce  an}'  thing  absolutely 
bad  or  disgusting ; as  a man  who  observes  the  laws,  and 
obeys  decorum,  can  never  be  au  absolutely  intolerable  neigh- 
bor, nor  a decided  villain  : but  yet,  say  what  you  will  of 
rules,  they  destroy  the  genuine  feeling  of  nature,  as  well  as 
its  true  expression.  Do  not  tell  me  “ that  this  is  too  hard, 
that  they  only  restrain  and  prune  superfluous  branches, 
etc.”  My  good  friend,  I will  illustrate  this  by  an  analogy. 
These  things  resemble  love.  A warm-hearted  youth  becomes 
strongly  attached  to  a maiden  : he  spends  ever-y  hour  of  the 
day  iu  her  company,  wears  out  his  health,  and  lavishes  his 
fortune,  to  afford  continual  proof  that  he  is  wholly  devoted 
to  her.  Then  comes  a man  of  the  world,  a man  of  place 
and  respectability,  and  addresses  him  thus:  ‘‘My  good 
young  friend,  love  is  natural ; but  you  must  love  M'ithin 
bounds.  Divide  your  time  : devote  a portion  to  business, 
and  give  the  hours  of  recreation  to  your  mistress.  Calculate 


SOKROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


17 


your  fortune ; and  out  of  the  superfluity  you  may  make  her  a 
present,  only  not  too  often,  — on  her  birthday,  and  such 
occasions.”  Pursuing  this  advice,  he  may  become  a useful 
member  of  society,  and  I should  advise  every  prince  to  give,^ 
him  an  appointment ; but  it  is  all  up  with  his  love,  and  with 
his  genius  if  he  be  an'¥ffist7‘~^  Iny  friend  ! why  is  it  that 
the  to n'eTir^or genius  so  seldom  bursts  forth,  so  seldom  rolls 
in  full-flowing  stream,  overwhelming  your  astounded  soul? 
Because,  on  either  side  of  this  stream,  cold  and  respectable 
persons  have  taken  up  their  abodes,  and,  forsooth,  theii’ 
summer-houses  and  tulip-beds  would  suffer  from  the  torrent ; 
wherefore  they  dig  trenches,  and  raise  embankments  betimes,  - 
in  order  to  avert  the  impending  danger. 

May  27. 

I find  I have  fallen  into  raptures,  declamation,  and  sim- 
iles, and  have  forgotten,  in  consequence,  to  tell  3'ou  what 
became  of  the  children.  Absorbed  in  my  artistic  contem- 
plations, which  I briefl}'  described  in  my  letter  of  j^esterday, 

I continued  sittiug  on  the  plough  for  two  hours.  Towards 
evening  a young  woman,  with  a basket  on  her  arm,  came 
running  towards  the  children,  who  had  not  moved  all  that 
time.  She  exclaimed  from  a distance,  “You  are  a good 
boy,  Philip!”  She  gave  me  greeting:  I returned  it,  rose, 
and  approached  lier.  I inquired  if  she  were  the  mother  of 
those  pretty  children.  “Yes,”  she  said;  and,  giving  the 
eldest  a piece  of  bread,  she  took  the  little  one  in  her  arms 
and  kissed  it  with  a mother’s  tenderness.  “ I left  m3'  child 
in  Philip’s  care,”  she  said,  “whilst  I went  into  the  town 
with  my  eldest  boy  to  bu}'  some  wheaten  bread,  some  sugar, 
and  an  earthen  pot.”  I saw  the  various  articles  in  the  bas- 
ket, from  which  the  cover  had  fallen.  “ I shall  make  some 
broth  to-night  for  m3'  little  Hans  (which  was  the  name  of  the 
3'oungest)  : that  wild  fellow,  the  big  one,  broke  m3'  pot  3'es- 
terday,  whilst  he  was  scrambling  with  Philip  for  what  re- 
mained of  the  contents.”  I inquired  for  the  eldest ; and  she 
had  scareel3'  time  to  tell  me  that  he  was  driving  a couple  of 
geese  home  from  the  meadow,  when  he  ran  up,  and  handed 
Philip  an  osier- twig.  I talked  a little  longer  with  the  woman, 
and  found  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  the  schoolmaster,  and 
that  her  husband  was  gone  on  a journe3'  into  Switzerland 
for  some  mone3'  a relation  had  left  him.  “ The3'  wanted  to 
cheat  him,”  she  said,  “ and  would  not  answer  his  letters  ; so 
he  is  gone  there  himself.  I hope  he  has  met  with  no  acci- 


18 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


dent,  as  I have  heard  nothing  of  him  since  his  departure.” 
I left  the  woman  with  regret,  gmng  each  of  the  children  a 
krentzer,  with  an  additional  one  for  the  youngest,  to  buy 
some  wheaten  bread  for  his  broth  when  she  went  to  town 
next ; and  so  we  parted. 

p I assure  you,  my  dear  friend,  when  my  thoughts  are  all  in 
‘ tumult,  the  sight  of  such  a creature  as  this  tranquillizes  my 
disturbed  mind.  She  moves  in  a happy  thoughtiessness 
within  the  confined  circle  of  her  existence  ; she  supplies  her 
wants  from  day  to  day  ; and,  when  she  sees  the  leaves  fall, 
they  raise  no  other  idea  in  her  mind  than  that  winter  is 
approaching. 

Since  that  time  I have  gone  out  there  frequently.  The 
children  have  become  quite  familiar  with  me  ; and  each  gets 
a lump  of  sugar  when  I drink  my  coffee,  and  they  share  my 
milk  and  bread  and  butter  in  the  evening.  Thej'  always 
receive  their  kreutzer  on  Sundays,  for  the  good  woman  has 
orders  to  give  it  to  them  when  I do  not  go  there  after  even- 
ing service. 

They  are  quite  at  home  with  me,  tell  me  every  thing  ; and 
I am  particularly  amused  with  observing  their  tempers,  a,nd 
the  simplicity  of  their  behavior,  when  some  of  the  other 
village  children  are  assembled  with  them. 

It  has  given  me  a deal  of  trouble  to  satisfy  the  anxiet)"  of 
the  mother,  lest  (as  she  says)  “ they  should  inconvenience 
the  gentleman.” 


JLA.Y  30. 

What  I have  latel}'  said  of  painting  is  equally  true  with 
respect  to  poetry.  It  is  only  necessary  for  us  to  know  what 
is  really  excellent,  and  venture  to  give  it  expression  ; and  that 
is  saying  much  in  few  words.  To-day  I have  had  a scene, 
which,  if  literally  related,  would,  make  the  most  beautiful 
id\l  in  the  world.  But  why  should  I talk  of  poetry  and 
scenes  and  id}ds?  Can  we  never  take  pleasui'e  in  nature 
without  having  recourse  to  art? 

If  you  expect  any  thing  grand  or  magnificent  from  this  in- 
troduction, you  will  be  sadlv  mistaken.  It  relates  merely  to 
a peasant-lad,  who  has  excited  in  me  the  warmest  interest. 
As  usual,  I shall  tell  my  story  badly  ; and  you.  as  usual,  will 
think  me  extravagant.  It  is  Walheim  once  more  — always 
Walheim  — which  produces  these  wonderful  phenomena. 

A party  had  assembled  outside  the  house  under  the  lin- 
den-trees, to  drink  coffee.  The  company  did  not  exactly 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


19 


please  me;  and,  under  one  pretext  or  another,  I lingered 
behind. 

' A peasant  ..came  from  an  adjoining  house,  and  set  to  work 
arranging'  some  part  of  the  same  plough  which  I had  lately 
sketched.  His  appearance  pleased  me  ; and  I spoke  to  him, 
inquired  about  his  circumstances,  made  his  acquaintance,  and, 
as  is  my  wont  with  persons  of  that  class,  was  soon  admitted 
into  his  confidence.  He  said  he  was  in  the  service  of  a young 
widow,  who  set  great  store  by  him.  He  spoke  so  much  of 
his  mistress,  and  praised  her  so  extravagantly,  that  I could 
soon  see  he  was  desperately  in  love  with  her.  “ She  is  no 
longer  young,”  he  said:  “ and  she  was  treated  so  badly  by 
her  former  husband  that  she  does  not  mean  to  many  again.” 
From  his  account  it  was  so  evident  what  incomparable  charms 
she  possessed  for  him,  and  how  ardently  he  wished  she  would 
select  him  to  extinguish  the  recollection  of  her  first  hus- 
band’s misconduct,  that  I should  have  to  repeat  his  own 
words  in  order  to  describe  the  depth  of  the  poor  fellow’s 
attachment,  truth,  and  devotion.  It  would,  in  fact,  require 
the  gifts  of  a great  poet  to  convey  the  expression  of  his 
features,  the  harmonj'  of  his  voice,  and  the  heavenly  fire  of 
his  eye.  No  words  can  portra}-  the  tenderness  of  his  every 
movement  and  of  every  featui'e : no  effort  of  mine  could  do 
justice  to  the  scene.  His  alarm  lest  I should  misconceive 
his  position  with  regard  to  his  mistress,  or  question  the  pro- 
priety of  her  conduct,  touched  me  paidiculaiiy.  The  charm- 
ing manner  with  which  he  described  her  form  and  person, 
which,  without  possessing  the  graces  of  youth,  won  and 
attached  him  to  her,  is  inexpi’essible,  and  must  be  left  to  the 
imagination.  I have  never  in  m3'  life  witnessed  or  fancied 
or  conceived  the  possibility  of  such  intense  devotion,  such 
ardent  affections,  united  with  so  much  purity.  Do  not  blame 
me  if  I say  that  the  recollection  of  this  innocence  and  truth 
is  deeply  impressed  upon  m3'  very  soul ; that  this  picture  of 
fidelit3'  and  tenderness  haunts  me  everywhere  ; and  that  my 
own  heart,  as  though  enkindled  b3'  the  flame,  glows  and 

burns  within  me.  . 

I mean  now  to  try  and  see  her  as  soon  as  I can ; or  per- 
haps, on  second  thoughts,  I had  better  not ; it  is  better  I 
should  behold  her  through  the  e3'es  of  her  lover.  To  my 
sight,  perhaps,  she  would  not  appear  as  she  now  stands 
before  me ; and  why  should  I destroy  so  sweet  a picture  ? 


20 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


Jirai:  16. 

“ WTiy  do  I not  write  to  you?  ” You  lay  claim  to  learn- 
ing, and  ask  such  a question.  You  should  have  guessed 
tliat  I am  well  — that  is  to  sa}"  — in  a word,  I have  made  an 
acquaintance  who  has  won  mj"  heart : I have  — 1 know  not. 

To  give  you  a regular  account  of  the  manner  in  which  I 
have  become  acquainted  with  the  most  amiable  of  women 
would  be  a difficult  task.  I am  a happy  and  contented  mor- 
tal, but  a poor  historian. 

An  angel ! Nonsense ! Eveiybody  so  describes  his  mis- 
tress ; and  yet  I find  it  impossible  to  tell  you  how  perfect 
she  is,  or  w%  she  is  so  perfect : suffice  it  to  say  she  has  cap- 
tivated all  my  senses. 

So  much  simplicity  with  so  much  understanding  — so 
mild,  and  yet  so  resolute  — a mind  so  placid,  and  a life  so 
active. 

But  all  this  is  ugly  balderdash,  which  expresses  not  a 
single  character  nor  feature.  Some  other  time  — but  no, 
not  some  other  time,  now,  this  very  instant,  will  I tell  you 
all  about  it.  Now  or  never.  Well,  between  ourselves,  since 
I commenced  my  letter,  I have  been  three  times  on  the  point 
of  throwing  down  mj'  pen,  of  ordering  mj’  horse,  and  riding 
out.  And  3’et  I vowed  this  morning  that  I would  not  ride 
to-day,  and  yet  every  moment  I am  rushing  to  the  window 
to  see  how  high  the  sun  is. 

I could  not  restrain  myself  — go  to  her  I must.  I have 
just  returned,  Wilhelm  ; and  whilst  I am  taking  supper  I will 
write  to  you.  What  a delight  it  was  for  my  soul  to  see  her 
in  the  midst  of  her  dear,  beautiful  childi’eu,  — eight  brothers 
and  sisters  ! 

But,  if  I proceed  thus,  you  will  be  no  wiser  at  the  end  of 
mj'  letter  than  jmu  were  at  the  beginning.  Attend,  then, 
and  I will  compel  mj'self  to  give  you  the  details. 

I mentioned  to  you  the  other  daj’  that  I had  become 

acquainted  with  S , the  district  judge,  and  that  he  had 

invited  me  to  go  and  visit  him  in  his  retirement,  or  rather 
in  his  little  kingdom.  But  I neglected  going,  and  perhaps 
should  never  have  gone,  if  chance  had  not  discovered  to  me 
the  treasure  which  lay  concealed  in  that  retired  spot.  Some 
of  our  jmung  people  had  proposed  gbing  a ball  in  the  coun- 
try, at  which  I consented  to  be  present.  I offered  m3"  hand 
for  the  evening  to  a pretty  and  agreeable,  but  rather  com- 
monplace, sort  of  girl  ffiom  the  immediate  neighborhood ; and 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


21 

it  was  agreed  that  I should  engage  a carriage,  and  call  upon 
Charlotte,  with  my  partner  and  her  aunt,  to  convey  them  to 
the  ball.  My  companion  informed  me,  as  we  drove  along 
through  the  park  to  the  hunting-lodge,  that  I should  make 
the  acquaintance  of  a very  charming  young  lady.  “ Take 
care,”  added  the  aunt,  “ that  you  do  not  lose  your  heart.” — • 
“Why?”  said  I.  “Because  she  is  alread}'  engaged  to  ai, 
very  wortliy  man,”  she  replied,  “ who  is  gone  to  settle  his 
affairs  upon  the  death  of  his  father,  and  will  succeed  to  a 
very  considerable  iuheritauce.”  This  information  possessed 
no  interest  for  me.  Whdn  we  arrived  at  the  gate,  the  sun 
was  setting  behind  the  tops  of  the  mountains.  The  atmos- 
phere was  heavy  ; and  the  ladies  expressed  their  fears  of  an 
approaching  stonn , as  masses  of  low  black  clouds  were  gath- 
ering iu  the  horizon.  I relieved  their  anxieties  by  pretending 
to  be  weather-wise,  although  I myself  had  some  apprehen- 
sions lest  our  pleasure  should  be  interrupted.  ■ 

I alighted  ; and  a maid  came  to  the  door,  and  requested 
us  to  wait  a moment  for  her  mistress.  I walked  across  the 
court  to  a well-built  house,  and,  asbeuding  the  flight  of  steps 
in  front,  opened  the  door,  and  saw  before  me  the  most 
charming  spectacle  I had  ever  witnessed.  Six  children,  from 
eleven  to  two  years  old,  were  running  about  the  hall,  and 
surrounding  a lady  of  middle  height,  with  a lovely  figure, 
dressed  in  a robe  of  simple  white,  trimmed  with  pink  ribbons. 
She  was  holding  a rye  loaf  in  her  hand,  and  was  cutting  slices 
for  the  little  ones  all  round,  in  proportion  to  their  age  and 
appetite.  She  performed  her  task  in  a graceful  and  affec- 
tionate manner ; each  claimant  awaiting  his  turn  with  out- 
stretched hands,  and  boisterously  shouting  his  thanks.  Some 
of  them  ran  away  at  once,  to  enjoy  their  evening  meal : whilst 
others,  of  a gentler  disposition,  I’etired  to  the  courtyard  to 
see  the  strangers,  and  to  survey  the  carriage  iu  which  their 
Charlotte  was  to  drive  away.  “ Pray  forgive  me  for  giving 
you  the  trouble  to  come  for  me,  and  for  keeping  the  ladies 
waiting : but  dressing,  and  arranging  some  household  duties 
before  I leave,  had  made  me  forget  my  children’s  supper  ; and 
the}'  do  not  like  to  take  it  from  any  one  but  me.”  I uttered 
some  indifferent  complimeut : but  my  whole  soul  was  absorbed 
b}'  her  air,  her  voice,  her  manner;  and  I had  scarcely  recov- 
ered myself  wlien  she  ran  into  her  room  to  fetch  her  gloves 
and  fan.  The  young  ones  threw  inquiring  glances  at  me 
from  a distance  ; whilst  I approached  the  youngest,  a most 
, delicious  little  creature.  He  drew  back ; and  Charlotte,  enter- 


22 


SORROWS  OF  WTERTHER. 


ing  at  the  very  moment,  said,  “ Louis,  shake  hands  with  your 
cousin.”  The  little  fellow  obeyed  willingly  ; and  I could  not 
resist  giving  him  a hearty  kiss,  notwithstanding  his  rather 
diity  foce.  “ Cousin,”  said  I to  Charlotte,  as  I handed  her 
down,  “ do  you  think  I deserve  the  happiness  of  being  re- 
lated to  3'ou?”  »She  replied,  with  a ready  smile,  “Oh!  I 
have  such  a number  of  cousins,  that  I should  be  sorry  if  you 
were  the  most  undeserving  of  them.”  In  taking  leave,  she 
desired  her  next  sister,  Sophy,  a girl  about  eleven  years  old, 
to  take  great  care  of  the  children,  and  to  say  good-by  to 
papa  for  her  when  he  came  home  from  his  ride.  She  enjoined 
to  the  little  ones  to  obej'  their  sister  Sophy  as  they  would 
herself,  upon  which  some  pr:>mised  that  they  would ; but  a 
little  fair-haired  girl,  about  six  years  old,  looked  discontented, 
and  said,  “But  Sophy  is' not  }’Ou,  Charlotte;  and  we  like 
you  best.”  The  two  eldest  boys  had  clambered  up  the  car- 
riage ; and,  at  my  request,  she  permitted  tliem  to  accompanv* 
us  a little  wa}^  through  the  forest,  upon  their  promising  to  sit 
veiw  still,  and  hold  fast. 

We  were  hardly  seated,  and  the  ladies  had  scarcely  ex- 
changed compliments,  making  the  usual  remarks  upon  each 
other’s  dress,  and  upon  the  company  they  expected  to  meet, 
when  Charlotte  stopped  the  carriage,  and  made  her  brothers 
get  down.  They  insisted  upon  kissing  her  hands  once  more  ; 
which  the  eldest  did  with  all  the  tenderness  of  a youth  of 
fifteen,  but  the  other  in  a lighter  and  more  careless  manner. 
She  desired  them  again  to  give  her  love  to  the  children,  and 
we  drove  olT. 

The  aunt  inquired  of  Charlotte  whether  she  had  finished 
the  book  she  had  last  sent  her.  “ Xo,”  said  Charlotte  ; 1 

did  not  like  it : you  can  have  it  again.  And  the  one  before 
was  not  much  better.”  I was  surprised,  upon  asking  the 

title,  to  hear  that  it  was  ^ . I found  penetration  and 

character  in  every  thing  she  said : eveiy  expression  seemed 
to  brighten  her  features  with  new  charms,  — with  new  ravs 
of  genius,  — which  unfolded  b}"  degrees,  as  she  felt  herself 
understood. 

“ When  I was  3’ounger,”  she  observed,  “ I loved  nothing 
so  much  as  romances.  Nothing  could  equal  nw  delight  when, 
on  some  holiday,  I could  settle  down  quietly  in  a corner,  and 
enter  with  ny  whole  heart  and  soul  into  the  jo3'S  or  sorrows 


1 Wc  feel  obliged  to  suppress  the  passage  in  the  letter,  to  prevent  any  one  from 
feeling  aggrieved:  altbongli  no  author  need  pay  much  attention  to  the  opinion  of  a 
mere  girl,  or  that  of  an  unsteady  young  man. 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


of  some  fictitious  Leonora.  I do  not  denj^  that  thej"  even 
possess  some  charms  for  me  yet.  But  I read  so  seldom,  that 
I prefer  books  suited  exactly  to  my  taste.  And  I like  those 
authors  best  whose  scenes  describe  my  own  situation  in  life, 
— and  the  friends  who  are  about  me,  whose  stories  touch  me 
with  interest,  from  resembling  my  own  homel}’  existence,  — 
winch,  without  being  absoluteh'  paradise,  is,  on  the  whole,  a 
source  of  indescribable  happiness.” 

I endeavored  to  conceal  the  emotion  which  these  words 
occasioned,  but  it  was  of  slight  avail ; for,  when  she  had  ex- 
pressed so  truly  her  opinion  of  “The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,” 
and  of  other  works,  the  names  of  which  I omit,^  I could  no 
longer  contain  myself,  but  gave  full  utterance  to  what  I 
thought  of  it : and  it  was  not  until  Charlotte  had  addressed 
herself  to  the  two  other  ladies,  that  I remembered  their  pres- 
ence, and  observed  them  sitting  mute  with  astonishment. 
The  aunt  looked  at  me  several  times  with  an  air  of  raillery, 
which,  however,  I did  not  at  all  mind. 

We  talked  of  the  pleasures  of  dancing.  “ If  it  is  a fault 
to  love  it,”  said  Chariotte,  “I  am  read}*  to  confess  that  I 
prize  it  above  all  other  amusements.  If  anything  disturbs 
me,  I go  to  the  piano,  play  an  air  to  which  I have  danced, 
and  all  goes  right  again  directly.” 

You,  who  know  me,  can  fancy  how  steadfastly  I gazed  upon 
her  rich  dark  eyes  during  these  remarks,  how  my  very  soul 
gloated  over  her  warm  lips  and  fresh,  glowing  cheeks,  how 
I became  quite  lost  in  the  delightful  meaning  of  her  words, 
so  much  so,  that  I scarcel3'  heard  the  actual  expressions.  In 
short,  I alighted  from  the  carriage  like  a person  in  a dream, 
and  was  so  lost  to  the  dim  world  around  me,  that  I scarcely 
heard  the  music  which  resounded  from  the  illuminated  ball- 
room. 

The  two  Messrs.  Andran  and  a certain  N.  N.  (I  cannot 
trouble  myself  with  the  names),  who  were  the  aunt’s  and 
Charlotte’s  partners,  received  us  at  the  carriage-door,  and 
took  possession  of  their  ladies,  whilst  I followed  with  mine. 

We  commenced  with  a minuet.  I led  out  one  lad}’  after 
another,  and  precisely  those  who  were  the  most  disagreeable 
could  not  bring  themselves  to  leave  off.  Charlotte  and  her 
partner  began  an  English  country  dance,  and  you  must  im- 
agine my  delight  when  it  was  their  turn  to  dance  the  figure 

^ Though  the  names  are  omitted,  yet  the  authors  mentioned  deserye  Charlotte’s 
approbatio^i,  and  will  feel  it  in  their  hearts  when  they  read  this  passage.  It  concerns 
^ other  person.  _ 


24 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


with  us.  You  should  see  Charlotte  dance.  She  dances  with 
her  whole  heS~aud~^duT  TTier  is  all  hannou}-,  elegance, 

and  grace,  as  if  she  were  conscious  of  nothing  else,  and  had 
no  other  thought  or  feeling  ; and,  doubtless,  for  the  moment, 
every  other  sensation  is  extinct. 

She  was  engaged  for  the  second  country  dance,  but  prom- 
ised me  the  thii-d,  and  assured  me,  with  the  most  agreeable 
freedom,  that  she  was  very  fond  of  waltzing.  “It  is  the 
custom  here,”  she  said,  “ for  the  previous  partners  to  waltz 
together ; but  my  partner  is  an  indifferent  waltzer,  and  will 
feel  delighted  if  I save  him  the  trouble.  Your  partner  is 
not  allowed  to  waltz,  and,  indeed,  is  equally  incapable  : but 
I observed  during  the  country  dance  that  you  waltz  well ; so, 
if  you  wdll  waltz  with  me,  I beg  }'ou  would  propose  it  to  my 
partner,  and  I will  propose  it  to  yours.”  We  agreed,  and  it 
was  arranged  that  our  partners  should  mutually  entertain  each 
other. 

We  set  off,  and,  at  first,  delighted  ourselves  with  the  usual 
graceful  motions  of  the  arras.  Vfith  what  grace,  with  what 
ease,  she  moved ! When  the  waltz  commenced,  and  the  dan- 
cers wdiirled  round  each  other  in  the  giddy  maze,  there  was 
some  confusion,  owing  to  the  incapacity  of  some  of  the  dan- 
cers. We  judiciously  remained  still,  allowing  the  others  to 
weary  themselves  ; and,  when  the  awkward  dancers  had  with- 
drawn, we  joined  in,  and  kept  it  up  famously  together  with 
one  other  couple, — Andran  and  his  partner.  Never  did  I 
dance  more  lightl}’.  I felt  myself  more  than  mortal,  holding 
this  loveliest  of  creatures  in  my  arms,  flying  with  her  as 
rapidly  as  the  wind,  till  I lost  sight  of  every  other  object ; 
and  O Wilhelm,  I vowed  at  that  moment,  that  a maiden 
whom  I loved,  or  for  whom  I felt  the  slightest  attachment, 
never,  never  should  waltz  with  any  one  else  but  with  me,  if 
I went  to  perdition  for  it ! — you  will  understand  this. 

We  took  a few  turns  in  the  room  to  recover  our  breath. 
Charlotte  sat  down,  and  felt  refreslied  b}’  partaking  of  some 
oranges  which  1 had  had  secured, — the  only  ones  that  had 
been  left ; but  at  every  slice  which,  from  politeness,  she 
offered  to  her  neighbors,  I felt  as  though  a dagger  went 
through  my  heart. 

AVe  were  the  second  couple  in  the  third  country'  dance.  As 
we  were  going  down  (and  Heaven  knows  with  what  ecstasy 
I gazed  at  her  arms  and  e}’es,  beaming  with  the  sweetest 
feeling  of  pure  and  genuine  enjoyment),  we  passed  a lad\ 
whom  I had  noticed  for  her  charming  expression  of  couute- 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


25 


nance ; although  she  was  no  longer  young.  She  looked  at 
Charlotte  with  a smile,  then,  holdiug  up  her  finger  in  a 
threatening  attitude,  repeated  twice  in  a very  significant  tone 
of  voice  the  name  of  ‘ ‘ Albert.  ’ ’ 

“ Who  is  Albert,”  said  I to  Charlotte,  “ if  it  is  not  imper- 
tinent to  ask?”  She  was  about  to  answer,  when  we  were 
obliged  to  separate,  in  order  to  execute  a figure  in  the  dance  ; 
and,  as  we  crossed  over  again  in  front  of  each  other,  I per- 
ceived she  looked  somewhat  pensive.  “ Wh}'  need  I conceal 
it  from  you?”  she  said,  as  she  gave  me  her  hand  for  the 
promenade.  “Albert  is  a worthy  man,  to  whom  I am  en- 
gaged.” Now,  there  was  nothing  new  to  me  in  this  (for  the 
girls  had  told  me  of  it  on  the  way)  ; but  it  was  so  far  new 
that  I had  not  thought  of  it  in  connection  with  her  whom,  in 
so  short  a time,  I had  learned  to  prize  so  highly.  Enough,  I 
became  confused,  got  out  in  the  figure,  and  occasioned  gen- 
eral confusion  ; so  that  it  required  all  Charlotte’s  presence  of 
mind  to  set  me  right  by  pulling  and  pushing  me  into  my 
proper  place. 

The  dance  was  not  yet  finished  when  the  lightning  which 
had  for  some  time  been  seen  in  the  horizon,  and  which  I had 
asserted  to  proceed  entirely  from  heat,  grew  more  violent ; 
and  the  thunder  was  heard  above  the  music.  When  any 
distress  or  terror  surprises  us  in  the  midst  of  our  amuse- 
ments, it  naturally  makes  a deeper  impression  than  at  other 
times,  either  because  the  contrast  makes  us  more  keenl}^  sus- 
ceptible, or  rather  perhaps  because  our  senses  are  then  more 
open  to  impressions,  ancl  the  shock  is  consequently  stronger. 
To  this  cause  I must  ascribe  the  fright  and  shrieks  of  the 
ladies.  One  sagaciously  sat  down  in  a corner  with  her  back 
to  the  window,  and  held  her  fingers  to  her  ears ; a second 
knelt  down  before  her,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  lap  ; a third 
threw  herself  between  them,  and  embraced  her  sister  with  a 
thousand  tears  ; some  insisted  on  going  home  ; others,  un- 
conscious of  their  actions,  wanted  suiFicient  presence  of  mind 
to  repress  the  impertinence  of  their  young  partners,  who 
sought  to  direct  to  themselves  those  sighs  which  the  lips  of 
our  agitated  beauties  intended  for  heaven.  Some  of  the  gen- 
tlemen had  gone  down  stairs  to  smoke  a quiet  cigar,  and  the 
rest  of  the  company  gladly  embraced  a happy  suggestion  of 
the  hostess  to  retire  into  another  room  which  was  provided 
with  shutters  and  curtains.  We  had  hardly  got  there,  when 
Charlotte  placed  the  chairs  in  a circle ; and,  when  the  com- 
pany had  sat  down  in  compliance  with  her  request,  she  forth- 
with proposed  a round  game. 


26 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


I noticed  some  of  the  company  prepare  their  mouths  and 
draw  themselves  up  at  the  prospect  of  some  agreeable  forfeit. 
“Let  us  pla}^  at  counting,”  said  Charlotte.  “Now,  pav 
attention  : I shall  go  round  the  circle  from  right  to  left ; and 
each  person  is  to  count,  one  after  the  other,  the  number  that 
comes  to  him,  and  must  count  fast ; whoever  stops  or  mis^ 
takes  is  to  have  a box  on  the  ear,  and  so  on,  till  we  have 
counted  a thousand.”  It  was  delightful  to  see  the  fun.  She 
went  round  the  circle  with  upraised  arm.  “One,”  said  the 
first;  “two,”  the  second;  “three,”  the  third;  and  so  on, 
till  Charlotte  went  faster  and  faster.  One  made  a mistake,  in- 
stantly a box  on  the  ear  ; and,  amid  the  laughter  that  ensued, 
came  another  box ; and  so  on,  faster  and  faster.  I m3-self 
came  in  for  two.  I fancied  they  were  harder  than  the  rest, 
and  felt  quite  delighted.  A general  laughter  and  confusion 
put  an  end  to  the  game  long  before  we  had  counted  as  far  as 
a thousand.  The  party  broke  up  into  little  separate  knots  : 
the  storm  had  ceased,  and  I followed  Charlotte  into  the  ball- 
room. On  the  way  she  said,  “The  game  banished  their 
fears  of  the  storm.”  I could  make  no  reply.  “ I myself,” 
she  continued,  “was  as  much  frightened  as  any  of  them; 
but  bj-  affecting  courage,  to  keep  up  the  spirits  of  the  others, 
I forgot  my  apprehensions.”  We  went  to  the  window.  It 
was  still  thundering  at  a distance  : a soft  rain  was  pouring 
down  over  the  country,  and  filled  the  air  around  us  with 
delicious  odors.  Charlotte  leaned  forward  on  her  arm : her 
ej’es  wandered  over  the  scene ; she  raised  them  to  the  sky, 
and  then  turned  them  upon  me ; they  were  moistened  witli 
teai’s  ; she  placed  her  hand  on  mine  and  said.  ‘ • Klopstoek  ! ’ ’ 
at  once  I remembered  the  magnificent  ode  which  was  in  her 
thoughts  : I felt  oppressed  with  the  weight  of  my  sensations, 
and  sank  under  them.  It  was  more  than  I could  bear.  I 
bent  over  her  hand,  kissed  it  in  a stream  of  delicious  teai-s, 
and  again  looked  up  to  her  eyes.  Divine  Klopstoek ! why 
didst  thou  not  see  thy  apotheosis  in  those  eyes?  And  thy 
name,  so  often  profaned,  would  that  I never  heard  it  re- 
peated ! 

JCXE  19. 

I no  longer  remember  where  I stopped  in  my  narrative  : I 
only  know  "it  was  two  in  the  morning  when  I went  to  bed : 
and  if  you  had  been  with  me,  that  I might  have  talked  instead 
of  writing  to  you,  I should,  in  all  probability’,  have  kept  you 
up  till  daylight. 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


2/ 


I think  I have  not  yet  related  what  happened  as  we  rode 
home  from  the  ball,  nor  have  I time  to  tell  you  now.  It 
was  a most  magnificent  sunrise  : the  whole  countr}"  was  re- 
freshed, and  the  rain  fell  drop  by  drop  from  the  trees  in  the 
forest.  Our  companions  were  asleep.  Charlotte  asked  me 
if  I did  not  wish  to  sleep  also,  and  begged  of  me  not  to  make 
any  ceremony  on  her  account.  Looking  steadfastly  at  her,  I 
answered,  “ As  long  as  I see  those  eyes  open,  there  is  no  fear 
of  my  falling  asleep.”  We  both  continued  awake  till  we 
reached  her  door.  The  maid  opened  it  softly,  and  assured 
her,  in  answer  to  her  inquiries,  that  her  father  and  the  chil- 
dren were  well,  and  still  sleeping.  I left  her,  asking  permis- 
sion to  visit  her  in  the  course  of  the  day.  She  consented, 
and  I went;  and,  since  that  time,  sun,  moon,  and  stars  may 
pursue  their  course  : I know  not  whether  it  is  day  or  night ; 
the  whole  world  is  nothing  to  me. 

June  21. 

My  days  are  as  happy  as  those  reserved  by  God  for  his 
elect ; and,  whatever  be  my  fate  hereafter,  I can  never  say  that 
I have  not  tasted  jojq  — the  purest  joy  of  life.  You  know 
Walheim.  I am  now  completely  settled  there.  In  that  spot 
I am  only  half  a league  from  Charlotte ; and  there  I enjoy 
myself,  and  taste  all  the  pleasure  which  can  fall  to  the  lot  of 
man. 

Little  did  I imagine,  when  I selected  Walheim  for  my 
pedestrian  excursions,  that  all  heaven  lay  so  near  it.  How 
often  in  m3'  wanderings  from  the  hill-side  or  from  the 
meadows  across  the  river,  have  I beheld  this  hunting-lodge, 
w'hich  now  contains  within  it  all  the  joj'  of  my  heart ! 

I have  often,  my  dear  Wilhelm,  reflected  on  the  eagerness 
men  feel  to  wander  and  make  hew  discoveries,  and  upon 
that  secret  impulse  which  afterwards  inclines  them  to  return 
to  their  narrow  circle,  conform  to  the  laws  of  custom,  and 
embarrass  themselves  no  longer  with  what  passes  around 
them. 

It  is  so  strange  how,  when  I came  here  first,  and  gazed  \ 
upon  that  lovety  valley  from  the  hill-side,  I felt  charmed  with  j 
the  entire  scene  surrounding  me.  The  little  wood  opposite,  j 
— how  delightful  to  sit  under  its  shade  ! How  fine  the  view  ' 
from  that  point  of  rock  ! Then,  that  delightful  chain  of  hills, 
and  the  exquisite  valleys  at  their  feet ! Could  I but  wander 
jtnd  lose  myself  amongst  them  ! I went,  and  returned  with- 
out finding  what  I wished.  Distance,  my  friend,  is  like 


28 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


futurity.  A dim  vastness  is  spread  before  our  souls : the 
perceptions  of  our  mind  are  as  obscure  as  tliose  of  our  Ausion  ; 
and  we  desire  earnestly  to  surrender  up  our  Avhole  being, 
that  it  may  be  filled  with  the  complete  and  perfect  bliss  of 
one  glorious  emotion.  But  alas  ! when  w'e  have  attained  our 
object,  when  the  distant  there  becomes  the  present  here,  all 
is  changed ; we  are  as  poor  and  circumscribed  as  ever,  and 
our  souls  still  languish  for  unattainable  happiness. 

So  does  the  restless  traveller  pant  for  his  native  soil,  and 
find  in  his  own  cottage,  in  the  arms  of  his  wife,  in  the  affec- 
tions of  his  children,  and  in  the  labor  necessary  for  their 
support,  that  happiness  which  he  had  sought  in  vain  through 
the  wide  world. 

When,  in  the  morning  at  sunrise,  I go  out  to  Walheim,  and 
with  my  own  hands  gather  in  the  garden  the  pease  which  are 
to  serve  for  my  dinner,  when  I sit  down  to  shell  them,  and 
read  my  Homer  during  the  intervals,  and  then,  selecting  a 
saucepan  from  the  kitchen,  fetch  my  own  butter,  put  my  mess 
on  the  fire,  coA'cr  it  up,  and  sit  down  to  stir  it  as  occasion 
requires,  I figure  to  myself  the  illustrious  suitors  of  Peneloi)C, 
killing,  dressing,  and  preparing  their  own  oxen  and  swine. 
Nothing  fills  me  with  a more  pure  and  genuine  sense  of 
happiness  than  those  traits  of  patriarchal  life  which,  thank 
Heaven ! I can  imitate  Avithout  affectation.  Happy  is  it, 
indeed,  for  me  that  my  heart  is  capable  of  feeling  the  same 
simple  and  innocent  pleasure  as  the  peasant  whose  table  is 
covered  with  food  of  his  own  rearing,  and  Avho  not  only 
'enjoys  his  meal,  but  remembers  with  delight  the  happy  days 
; and  sunny  mornings  when  he  planted  it,  the  soft  evenings 
' when  he  watered  it,  and  the  pleasure  he  experienced  in 
watching  its  daily  growth. 


The  day  before  j'esterday,  the  physician  came  from  the  town 
to  pa}"  a visit  to  the  judge.  He  found  mo  on  the  floor  play- 
ing w'ith  Charlotte’s  children.  Some  of  them  were  scram- 
bling over  me,  and  others  romped  with  me  ; and.  as  I caught 
and  tickled  them,  they  made  a great  noise.  The  doctor  is  a 
formal  sort  of  personage  : he  adjusts  the  plaits  of  his  ruffles, 
and  continually  settles  his  frill  whilst  he  is  talking  to  you  : 
and  he  thought  my  conduct  beneath  the  dignity  of  a sensible 
man.  I could  perceive  this  by  his  countenance.  But  I did 
not  suffer  myself  to  be  disturbed.  I allowed  him  to  continue 
his  wise  couA^ersation,  whilst  I rebuilt  the  chikkeu’s  cai’d 


JrxE  29. 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


29 


houses  for  them  as  fast  as  they  threw  them  down.  He  went 
about  the  town  afterwards,  complaining  that  the  judge’s 
children  were  spoiled  enough  before,  but  that  now  Werther 
was  completely  ruining  them. 

Yes,  my  dear  Wilhelm,  nothing  on  this  earth  affects  my 
heart  so  much  as  children.  When  I look  on  at  their  doings  ; 
when  I mark  in  the  little  creatures  the  seeds  of  all  those 
virtues  and  qualities  which  they  will  one  da}'  find  so  indis- 
pensable ; when  I behold  in  the  obstinate  all  the  future  firm- 
ness and  constancy  of  a noble  character ; in  the  capricious, 
that  levity  and  gayety  of  temper  which  will  carry  them  lightly 
over  the  dangers  and  troubles  of  life,  their  whole  nature  sim- 
ple and  unpolluted,  — then  I call  to  mind  the  golden  words  of 
the  Great  Teacher  of  mankind,  Unless  ye  become  like  one 
of  these!”  And  now,  my  friend,  these  children,  who  are 
our  equals,  whom  we  ought  to  consider  as  our  models,  we 
treat  them  as  though  they  were  our  subjects.  They  are 
allowed  no  will  of  their  own.  And  have  we,  then,  none  our- 
selves ? Whence  comes  our  exclusive  right  ? Is  it  because 
we  are  older  and  more  experienced?  Great  God  ! from  the 
height  of  thy  heaven  thou  beholdest  great  children  and  little 
children,  and  no  others  ; and  thy  Son  has  long  since  declared 
which  afford  thee  greatest  pleasure.  But  they  believe  in 
him,  and  hear  him  not, — that,  too,  is  an  old  story;  and 
they  train  their  childi’en  after  their  own  image,  etc. 

Adieu,  Wilhelm : I will  not  further  bewilder  myself  with 
this  subject. 


Jtjxy  1. 

The  consolation  Charlotte  can  bring  to  an  invalid  I expe- 
rience from  my  own  heart,  which  suffers  more  from  her 
absence  than  many  a poor  creature  lingering  on  a bed  of 
sickness.  She  is  gone  to  spend  a few  days  in  the  town  with 
a very  worthy  woman,  who  is  given  over  by  the  physicians, 
and  wishes  to  have  Charlotte  near  her  in  her  last  moments. 

I accompanied  her  last  week  on  a visit  to  the  vicar  of  S , 

a small  village  in  the  mountains,  about  a league  hence.  We 
arrived  about  four  o’clock:  Charlotte  had  taken  her  little 
sister  with  her.  When  we  entered  the  vicarage  court,  we 
found  the  good  old  man  sitting  on  a bench  before  the  door, 
under  the  shade  of  two  large  walnut-trees.  At  the  sight  of 
Charlotte  he  seemed  to  gain  new  life,  rose,  forgot  his  stick, 
^md  ventured  to  walk  towards  her.  She  ran  to  him,  and 
^nade  him  sit  down  again  ; then,  placing  herself  by  his  sidCj 


30 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


she  gave  him  a mimbev  of  messages  from  her  father,  and 
then  caught  up  his  youngest  child,  a dirty,  ugly  little  thing, 
the  joy  of  his  old  age,  and  kissed  it.  I wish  you  could  have 
witnessed  her  attention  to  this  old  man,  — how  she  raised  her 
voice  on  account  of  his  deafness  ; how  she  told  him  of  health}' 
young  people,  who  had  been  carried  off  when  it  was  least 
expected ; praised  the  virtues  of  Carlsbad,  and  commended 
his  determination  to  spend  the  ensuing  summer  there  ; and 
assured  him  that  he  looked  better  and  .stronger  than  he  did 
when  she  saw  him  last.  I,  in  the  mean  time,  paid  attention 
to  his  good  lady.  The  old  man  seemed  quite  in  spirits  ; and 
as  I could  not  help  admiring  the  beauty  of  the  walnut-trees, 
which  formed  such  an  agreeable  shade  over  our  he.ads,  he 
began,  though  with  some  little  difficult}',  to  tell  us  their 
history.  “As  to  the  oldest,”  said  he,  “we  do  not  know 
who  planted  it,  — some  say  one  clergyman,  and  some  another : 
but  the  younger  one,  there  behind  us,  is  exactly  the  age  of 
my  wife,  fiffy  years  old  next  October;  her  father  planted  it 
in  the  morning,  and  in  the  evening  she  came  into  the  world. 
My  wife’s  father  was  my  predecessor  here,  and  I cannot  tell 
you  how  fond  he  w'as  of  that  tree  ; and  it  is  fully  as  dear  to 
me.  Under  the  shade  of  that  very  tree,  upon  a log  of  wooil, 
my  wife  was  seated  knitting,  when  I,  a poor  student,  came 
into  this  court  for  the  first  time,  just  seven  and  twenty  years 
ago.”  Charlotte  inquired  for  his  daughter.  He  said  she 
W’as  gone  w’ith  Herr  Schmidt  to  the  meadows,  and  was  with 
the  haymakers.  The  old  man  then  resumed  his  story,  and 
told  us  how  his  jiredecessor  had  taken  a fancy  to  him.  .as 
had  his  daughter  likewise  ; and  how'  he  had  become  fiist  his 
curate,  and  subsequently  his  successor.  He  had  scarcely 
finished  his  story  when  his  daughter  returned  through  the 
garden,  accompanied  by  the  above-mentioned  Herr  .Schmidt. 
She  welcomed  Charlotte  affectionately,  and  I confess  I 
W'as  much  taken  with  her  appearance.  She  was  a lively- 
looking,  good-humored  brunette,  quite  competent  to  amuse 
one  for  a short  time  in  the  country.  Her  lover  (for  su.di 
Herr  Schmidt  evidentl}'  appeared  to  be)  was  a polite,  re- 
served personage,  and  would  not  join  oim  eonveisation, 
notw'ithstanding  all  Charlotte’s  endeavors  to  draw  him  oiit. 
I was  much  annoyed  at  observing,  by  his  countenance,  that 
his  silence  did  not  arise  from  want  of  talent,  but  from  capilce 
and  ill-humor.  This  subsequently  became  A’ery  evident,  when 
we  set  out  to  take  a walk,  and  Frederica  joining  Charlotte, 
with  whom  I was  talking,  the  w'orthy  gentleman’s  face,  which 


SOKKOWS  OF  WERTHEK. 


31 


was  naturally  rather  sombre,  became  so  dark  and  angry  that 
Charlotte  was  obliged  to  touch  my  arm,  and  remind  me  that 
I was  talking  too  much  to  Frederica.  Nothing  distresses 
me  more  than  to  see  men  torment  each  other ; particularly 
when  in  the  flower  of  their  age,  in  the  very  season  of  pleas- 
ure, they  waste  their  few  short  days  of  sunshine  in  quarrels 
and  disputes,  and  only  perceive  their  error  when  it  is  too 
late  to  repair  it.  This  thought  dwelt  upon  my  mind ; and 
in  the  evening,  when  we  returned  to  the  vicar’s,  and  were 
sitting  round  the  table  with  our  bread  and  milk,  the  con- 
versation turned  on  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  world,  I 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  inveigh  bitterly  against 
ill-humor.  “lYe  are  apt,”  said  I,  “to  complain,  but  with 
very  little  cause,  that  our  happy  days  are  few,  and  our  evil 
days  many.  If  our  hearts  were  always  disposed  to  receive 
the  benefits  Heaven  sends  us,  we  should  acquire  strength  to 
support  evil  when  it  comes.”  — “ But,”  observed  the  vicar’s 
wife,  “we  cannot  always  command  our  tempers,  so  much 
depends  upon  the  constitution : when  the  body  suffers,  the 
mind  is  ill  at  ease.”  — “ I acknowledge  that,”  I continued  ; 
“but  we  must  consider  such  a disposition  in  the  light  of  a 
disease,  and  inquire  whether  there  is  no  remedy  for  it.” 
— “I  should  be  glad  to  hear  one,”  said  Charlotte:  “at 
least,  I think  very  much  depends  upon  ourselves  ; I know  it 
is  so  with  me.  When  any  thing  annoys  me,  and  disturbs  my 
temper,  I hasten  into  the  garden,  hum  a couple  of  country 
dances,  and  it  is  all  right  with  me  directly.”  — “That  is 
what  I meant,”  I replied  ; “ ill-humor  resembles  indolence  : 
it  is  natural  to  us ; but  if  once  we  have  courage  to  exert 
ourselves,  we  find  our  work  run  fresh  from  our  hands,  and 
we  experience  in  the  activity  from  which  we  shrank  a real 
enjoyment.”  Frederica  listened  very  attentively;  and  the 
young  man  objected,  that  we  were  not  masters  of  ourselves, 
and  stUl  less  so  of  our  feelings.  “ The  question  is  about  a 
disagreeable  feeling,”  I added,  “ from  which  every  one 
would  willingly  escape,  but  none  know  their  own  power 
without  trial.  Invalids  are  glad  to  consult  physicians,  and 
submit  to  the  most  scrupulous  regimen,  the  most  nauseous 
medicines,  in  order  to  recover  their  health.”  I observed 
t^,at  the  good  old  man  inclined  his  head,  and  exerted  himself 
t^  hear  our  discourse  ; so  I raised  my  voice,  and  addressed 
f yself  dh-ectly  to  him.  “We  preach  against  a great  many 
crimes,”  I observed,  “but  I never  remember  a sermon 
diV'livered  against  iU-hiunor.”  — “ That  may  do  very  well  for 


32 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


/your  town  clergymen,”  said  he  : “ country  people  are  nevei 
^ ill-humored  ; though,  indeed,  it  might  be  useful  occasionally, 
to  ray  wife  for  instance,  and  the  judge.”  We  all  laughecE 
as  did  he  likewise  very  cordially,  till  he  fell  into  a fit  of 
coughing,  which  interrupted  our  conversation  for  a time. 
Herr  Schmidt  resumed  the  subject.  ‘‘You  call  ill-humor 
a crime,”  he  remarked,  ‘‘but  I think  you  use  too  strong  a 
term.”  — “Not  at  all,”  I replied,  ‘-if  that  deserves  the 
name  which  is  so  pernicious  to  ourselves  and  our  neighbors. 
Is  it  not  enough  that  we  want  the  power  to  make  one  another 
happy,  — must  we  deprive  each  other  of  the  pleasure  which 
we  can  all  make  for  ourselves  ? Show  me  the  man  who  has 
y the  courage  to  hide  his  ill-humor,  who  bears  the  whole  bur- 
den himself,  without  disturbing  the  peace  of  those  around 
him.  No  : ill-humor  arises  from  an  inward  consciousness 
of  our  own  want  of  merit,  — from  a discontent  which  ever 
accompanies  that  envy  which  foolish  vanity  engenders.  Y.'e 
see  people  happy,  whom  we  have  not  made  so,  and  cannot 
endure  the  sight.”  Charlotte  looked  at  me  with  a smile; 
she  observed  the  emotion  with  which  I spoke:  and  a teu- 
in  the  eyes  of  Frederica  stimulated  me  to  proceed.  " A\'oe 
unto  those,”  I said,  “who  use  their  power  over  a human 
heart  to  destroy  the  simple  pleasures  it  Avould  naturally 
enjoy  ! All  the  favors,  all  the  attentions,  in  the  world  can- 
not compensate  for  the  loss  of  that  happiness  Avhich  a cir.el 
tyranny  has  destroyed.”  My  heart  Avas  full  as  I spoke.  A 
recollection  of  many  things  which  had  happened  pres.sed 
upon  my  mind,  and  filled  my  ej'es  with  tears.  “ AVe  should 
daily  repeat  to  ourselves,”  I exclaimed,  ‘‘  that  we  should  not 
interfere  Avith  our  friends,  unless  to  leave  them  in  possession 
of  their  own  joys,  and  increase  their  happiness  by  sharing 
it  with  them  ! But  when  their  souls  are  tormented  by  a 
violent  passion,  or  their  hearts  rent  Avith  grief,  is  it  in  join- 
power  to  afford  them  the  slightest  consolation  ? 

“And  Avhen  the  last  fatal  malady  seizes  the  being  whose 
untimely  grave  you  have  prepared,  when  she  lies  languid  and 
exhausted  befoi’e  a’Ou.  her  dim  eyes  raised  to  heaven  and  the 
damp  of  death  upon  her  pallid  broAv,  then  you  stand  at  her 
bed-side  like  a condemned  criminal.  Avith  the  bitter  feeling 
that  your  whole  fortune  could  not  save  her  ; and  the  aoou'2;‘'g 
thought  Avriugs  a'ou,  that  all  your  efforts  are  powerless  tco-'<A- 
part  even  a moment’s  strength  to  .the  departing  soulA'^i" 
quicken  her  Avith  a transitory  consoiation.”  e 

At  these  words  the  remembrance  of  a similar  scene  ‘Ut 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


33 


which  I had  been  once  present  fell  with  full  force  upon  my 
heart.  I buried  my  face  in  my  handkerchief,  and  hastened 
inmi  "the  room,  and  was  only  recalled  to  my  recollection  by 
Charlotte’s  voice,  who  reminded  me  that  it  was  time  to  return 
home.  With  what  tenderness  she  chid  me  on  the  way  for 
the  too  eager  interest  I took  in  every  thing  ! She  declared  it 
would  do  me  injury,  and  that  I ought  to  spare  mj'self.  — Yes, 
my  angel ! I will  do  so  for  j'our  sake. 

July  6. 

She  is  still  with  her  dying  friend,  and  is  still  the  same 
bright,  beautiful  creature  whose  presence  softens  pain,  and 
sheds  happiness  around  whichever  way  she  turns.  She  went 
out  yesterday  with  her  little  sisters  : I knew  it,  and  went  to 
meet  them  ; and  we  walked  together.  In  about  an  hour  and 
a half  we  returned  to  the  town.  We  stopped -at  the  spring 
I am  so_foud  of,  and  which  is  now  a thousand  times  dearer 
to  me  than  ever.  Charlotte  seated  herself  upon  the  low  wall, 
and  we  gathered  about  her.  I looked  round,  and  recalled 
the  time  when  m3"  heart  was  unoccupied  and  free.  “Dear 
fountain  ! ’’  I said,  “ since  that  time  I have  no  more  come  to 
enjo3"  cool  repose  b}"  thy  fresh  stream  : I have  passed  thee 
with  careless  steps,  and  scarcely  bestowed  a glance  upon 
thee.’’  I looked  down,  and  observed  Charlotte’s  little  sister, 
Jane,  coming  up  the  steps  with  a glass  of  water.  I turned 
towards  Charlotte,  and  I felt  her  influence  over  me.  Jane  at 
the  moment  approached  with  the  glass.  Her  sister,  Mari- 
anne, wished  to  take  it  from  her.  “ No  ! ’’  cried  the  child, 
with  the  sweetest  expression  of  face,  “ Charlotte  mnst  dilnk 
first.’’ 

The  affection  and  simplicity  with  which  this  was  uttered 
so  charmed  me,  that  I sought  to  express  my  feelings  b}'  catch- 
ing up  the  child  and  kissing  her  heartil}'.  She  was  frightened, 
and  began  to  cry.  “You  should  not  do  that,’’  said  Char- 
lotte; I felt  perplexed.  “Come,  Jane,’’  she  continued, 
taking  her  hand,  and  leading  her  dow'n  the  steps  again,  “ it 
is  no  matter;  wash  3'ourself  quickh'  in  the  fresh  water.’’  I 
stood  and  watched  them  ; and  when  I saw  the  little  dear  rub- 
bing her  cheeks  with  her  wet  hands,  in  full  belief  that  all  the 
impurities  contracted  from  my  iigly  beard  would  be  washed 
off  by  the  miraculous  water,  and  how,  though  Charlotte  said 
it  would  do,  she  continued  still  to  wash  with  all  her  might, 
as  though  she  thought  too  much  were  better  than  too  little,  I 
assure  }"ou,  AVilhelm,  I never  attended  a baptism  with  greater 


34 


SORROWS  OF  WERTIIER. 


reverence ; and,  when  Charlotte  came  np  from  thvC  well,  I 
could  have  prostrated  myself  as  before  the  prophef;  of  an 
Eastern  nation. 

In  the  evening  I could  not  resist  telling  the  story  to  a 
person  who,  I thought,  possessed  some  natural  feeling,  be- 
cause he  was  a man  of  understanding.  But  what  a mistake 
I made.  He  maintained  it  was  very  wrong  of  Charlotte.  — 
that  we  should  not  deceive  children,  — that  such  things  occa- 
sioned countless  mistakes  and  superstitious,  from  which  we 
were  bound  to  protect  the  j ouug.  It  occurred  to  me  then, 
that  this  very  man  had  been  baptized  oul}'  a week  before  ; so  I 
said  nothing  further,  but  maintained  the  justice  of  my  own 
convictions.  We  should  deal  with  children  as  God  deals 
, with  us,  — wo  are  happiest  under  the  influence  of  innocent 
^ delusions. 


“ July  8. 

What  a child  is  man  that  he  should  be  so  solicitous  about 
a look  ! What  a child  is  man  ! We  had  been  to  A\'alheim  : 
the  ladies  went  in  a carriage  ; but  during  our  walk  I thought 
/ 1 saw  in  Charlotte’s  dark  e}’es  — I am  a fool  — but  forgive 

me  ! you  should  see  them,  — those  ej’es.  — However,  to  be 
, brief  (for  my  own  eyes  arc  weighed  down  with  sleep)',  you 
^ must  know,  when  the  ladies  stepped  into  their  carriage  again, 
young  W.  Scldstadt,  Andrau,  and  I were  standing  about  the 
door.  They  are  a merry  set  of  fellows,  and  they  nere  all 
laughing  and  joking  together.  I watched  Charlotte’s  eyes. 
They  wandered  from  one  to  the  other ; but  they  did  not  light 
on  me,  — on  me,  who  stood  there  motionless,  and  who  saw 
nothing  but  her ! IMj'  heart  bade  her  a thousand  times 
adieu,  but  she  noticed  me  not.  The  carriage  drove  off.  and 
my  eyes  filled  with  tears.  I looked  after  her : suddenly  I 
saw  Charlotte’s  bonnet  leaning  out  of  the  window,  and  she 
turned  to  look  back,  — was  it  at  me?  3Iy  dear  friend.  I 
know  not ; and  in  this  uncertaiut}’  I find  consolation.  Rer- 
haps  she  turned  to  look  at  me.  Perhaps!  Good-night  — 
what  a child  I am  ! 

July  10. 

You  should  see  how  foolish  I look  in  company  when  her 
name  is  mentioned,  particularly  when  I am  asked  ))laiuly 
how  I like  her.  How  I like  her!  — I detest  the  phrase. 
What  sort  of  creature  must  lie  be  who  merely  liked  Charlotte, 
whose  whole  heart  and  senses  were  not  entirely  absorbed  by 


SORROAVS  OF  AVERTHER. 


35 


her.  Like  her!  Some  one  asked  me  lately  how  I liked 

JCLY  11. 

Madame  M is  very  ill.  I pray  for  her  recoveiy,  be- 

cause Charlotte  shares  my  sufferings.  I see  her  occasionally 
at  my  friend’s  house,  and  to-day  she  has  told  me  the  strangest 

circumstance.  Old  M is  a covetous,  miserly  fellow,  who 

has  long  worried  aud  annoyed  the  poor  lady  sadly  ; hut  she 
has  borne  her  afflictions  patiently.  A few  dai's  ago,  when 
the  physician  informed  us  that  her  recoveiy  was  hopeless,  she 
sent  for  her  husband  (Charlotte  was  present) , and  addressed 
him  thus:  “I  have  something  to  confess,  which,  after  my 
decease,  may  occasion  trouble  aud  confusion.  I have  hitherto 
conducted  your  household  as  frugally  aud  economically  as 
possible,  but  you  must  pardon  me  for  ha'i'ing  defrauded  you 
for  thirty  years.  At  the  commencement  of  our  married  life, 
_you  allowed  a small  sum  for  the  wants  of  the  kitchen,  aud 
the  other  household  expenses.  AVhen  our  establishment 
increased  and  our  property  grew  larger,  I could  not  persuade 
you  to  increase  the  weekly  allowance  in  proportion  : in  short, 
you  know,  that,  when  our  wants  were  greatest,  you  required 
me  to  supply  every  thing  with  seven  florins  a week.  I took 
the  money  from  3'ou  without  an  observation,  hut  made  up 
the  weekly  deficiency  from  the  mouej'-chest ; as  nobody 
would  suspect  j’our  wife  of  robbing  the  household  bank.  But 
I have  wasted  nothing,  and  should  have  been  content  to  meet 
my  eternal  -Judge  without  this  confession,  if  she.  upon  whom 
the  management  of  your  establishment  will  devolve  after  m3’ 
decease,  would  be  free  from  embarrassment  upon  your  insist- 
ing that  the  allowance  made  to  me,  your  former  wife,  was 
sufficient.” 

I talked  with  Charlotte  of  the  inconceivable  manner  in 
which  men  allow  themselves  to  be  blinded  ; how  ^13’  one  could 
avoid  suspecting  some  deception,  when  seven  florins  only 
were  allowed  to  defra3’  expenses  twice  as  great.  But  I have 
m3'self  known  people  who  believed,  without  au3’  visible  aston- 
ishment, that  their  house  possessed  the  prophet’s  never-fail- 
ing cruse  of  oil. 

JCLY  13. 

No,  I am  not  deceived.  In  her  dark  e3’es  I read  a genuine 
interest  in  me  and  in  my  fortunes.  Yes,  I feel  it;  aud  I 
may  believe  my  own  heart  which  tells  me  — dare  I sa3'  it  ? — 
dare  I pronounce  the  divine  words  ? — that  she  loves  me  ! 

N,  ) 


36 


SORROWS  OF  WERTIIER. 


That  slie  loves  me ! How  the  idea  exalts  me  in  my  own 
eyes  ! And,  as  you  can  understand  my  feelings,  I may  say 
to  you,  how  I lioiior  myself  since  she  loves  me  ! 

Is  this  presumption,  or  is  it  a consciousness  of  the  truth? 
I do  not  know  a man  able  to  supplant  me  in  the  hcait  of 
Charlotte  ; and  yet  when  she  speaks  of  her  betrothed  with 
so  much  warmth  and  affection , I feel  like  the  soldier  who  has 
been  stripped  of  his  honors  and  titles,  and  deprived  of  his 
sword. 


July  16. 

How  ra}'  heart  beats  when  by  accident  I touch  her  finger, 
or  my  feet  meet  hers  under  the  table  ! I draw  back  as  if 
from  a furnace  ; but  a secret  force  impels  me  forward  again, 
and  m}^  senses  become  disordered.  Her  innocent,  uncon- 
scious heart  never  knows  what  agon}'  these  little  familiarities 
inflict  upon  me.  .Sometimes  when  we  arc  talking  she  lays 
her  hand  upon  mine,  and  in  the  eagerness  of  conversation 
comes  closer  to  mo,  and  her  balmy  breath  reaches  my  lips, 
— when  1 feel  as  if  lightning  had  struck  me,  and  that  I 
could  sink  into  the  earth.  And  yet,  AVilhehii,  with  all  this 
heavenly  confidence,  — if  I know  myself,  and  should  ever 
dare  — 3'ou  understand  me.  No,  no!  my  heart  is  not  so 
corrupt,  — it  is  weak,  weak  enough  — but  is  not  that  a 
degree  of  corruption? 

She  is  to  me  a sacred  being.  All  passion  is  still  in  her 
presence : 1 cannot  express  ray  sensations  when  I am  near 
her.  I feel  as  if  my  soul  beat  in  every  nerve  of  my  body. 
There  is  a melod}'  wliich  she  plays  on  the  piano  with  angelic 
skill,  — so  simple  is  it,  and  yet  so  spiritual ! It  is  her  favor- 
ite air ; and,  when  she  plays  the  first  note,  all  pain,  care,  and 
sorrow  disappear  from  me  in  a moment. 

I believe  every  M'ord  that  is  said  of  the  magic  of  ancient 
music. » How  her  simple  song  enchants  me!  .Sometimes, 
when  I am  ready  to  commit  suicide,  she  sings  that  air ; and 
instantly  the  gloom  and  madness  which  hung  over  me  are 
dispersed,  and  I breathe  freely  again. 


July  IS. 

■Wilhelm,  what  is  the  world  to  our  hearts  without  love? 
What  is  a magic-lantern  without  light?  You  have  but  to 
kindle  the  flame  within,  and  the  brightest  figures  shine  on 
the  white  wall ; and,  if  love  only  show  us  fleeting  shadows, 
we  are  yet  happy,  when,  like  mere  children,  we  behold  them, 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


37 


and  are  transported  with  the  splendid  phantoms.  I have 
not  been  able  to  see  Charlotte  to-day.  I was  prevented  by 
company  from  which  I could  not  disengage  m}fself.  What 
was  to  be  done?  I sent  my  servant  to  her  house,  that  I 
might  at  least  see  somebod}'  to-day  who  had  been  near  her. 
Oh,  the  impatience  with  which  I waited  for  his  return ! the 
jo}^  with  which  I welcomed  him ! I should  certainly  have 
caught  him  in  my  arms,  and  kissed  him,  if  I had  not  been 
ashamed. 

It  is  said  that  the  Bonoua  stone,  when  placed  in  the  sun, 
attracts  the  rays,  and  for  a time  appears  luminous  in  the 
dark.  So  was  it  with  me  and  this  servant.  The’ idea  that 
Charlotte’s  eyes  had  dwelt  on  his  countenance,  his  cheek,  his 
very  apparel,  endeared  them  all  inestimably  to  me,  so  that 
at  the  moment  1 would  not  have  parted  from  him  for  a thou- 
sand crowns.  His  presence  made  me  so  happy ! Beware 
of  laughing  at  me,  Wilhelm.  Can  that  be  a delusion  which 
makes  us  happy? 

July  19. 

“ I shall  see  her  to-day  ! ” I exclaim  with  delight,  when  I 
rise  in  the  mofning,  and  look  out  with  gladness  of  heart  at 
the  bright,  beautiful  sun.  “ I shall  see  her  to-day  ! ” And 
then  1 have  no  further  wish  to  form : all,  all  is  included  in 
that  one  thought. 

July  20. 

I cannot  assent  to  your  proposal  that  I should  accom- 
pany the  ambassador  to . 1 do  not  love  subordination  ; 

and  we  all  know  that  he  is  a rough,  disagreeable  person  to 
be  connected  with.  You  say  my  mother  wishes  me  to  be 
employed.  I could  not  help  laughing  at  that.  Am  I not 
sufficiently  employed?  And  is  it  not  in  reality  the  same, 
whether  I shell  pease  or  count  lentils  ? The  world  runs  on 
from  one  folly  to  another ; and  the  man  who,  solely  from 
regard  to  the  opinion  of  others,  and  without  an}^  wish  or 
necessity  of  his  own,  toils  after  gold,  honor,  or  any  other 
phantom,  is  no  better  than  a fool. 

July  24. 

You  insist  so  much  on  my  not  neglecting  my  drawing,  that 
it  would  be  as  well  for  me  to  say  nothing  as  to  confess  how 
little  I have  lately  done. 

I never  felt  happier,  I never  understood  nature  better, 


SORROWS  OF  WERTIIER. 


even  down  to  the  veriest  stem  or  smallest  blade  of  grass ; 
and  yet  I am  unable  to  express  myself : my  powers  of  execu- 
tion are  so  weak,  every  thing  seems  to  swim  and  float  before 
me,  so  that  I cannot  make  a clear,  bold  outline.  But  I fancy 
I should  succeed  better  if  I had  some  cla}'  or  wax  to  model.. 
I shall  try,  if  this  state  of  mind  continues  much  longer,  and 
will  take  to  modelling,  if  I only  knead  dough. 

I have  commenced  Charlotte’s  portrait  three  times,  and 
have  as  often  disgraced  myself.  This  is  the  more  annoying, 
as  I was  formerly  very  happy  in  taking  likenesses.  1 have 
since  sketched  her  profile,  and  must  content  myself  with 
that. 

July  25. 

Yes,  dear  Charlotte  ! I will  order  and  arrange  eveiy  thing. 
Only  give  me  more  commissions,  the  more  the  better.  One 
thing,  however,  I must  request : use  no  more  writing-sand 
with  the  dear  notes  you  send  me.  To-da}'  I raised  your 
letter  hastily  to  my  lips,  and  it  set  my  teeth  on  edge. 

July  26. 

I have  often  determined  not  to  see  her  so  freJ^ueutly.  But 
who  could  keep  such  a resolution?  Every  day  I am  exposed 
to  the  temptation,  and  promise  faithfully  that  to-morrow  I 
will  reall}'  stay  away : but,  when  to-morrow  comes,  I find 
some  irresistible  reason  for  seeing  her ; and.  before  I can 
account  for  it,  I am  with  her  again.  Either  she  has  said  on 
the  previous  evening,  “ You  will  be  sure  to  call  to-mcrrow,” 
— and  who  could  sta}'  away  then?  — or  she  gives  me  some 
commission,  and  I find  it  essential  to  take  her  the  answer  in 
person ; or  the  day  is  fine,  and  I walk  to  Walheim  ; and. 
■when  I am  there,  it  is  only  half  a league  farther  to  her.  I 
am  within  the  charmed  atmosphere,  and  soon  find  myself  at 
her  side.  M3'  grandmother  used  to  tell  us  a storv  of  a 
mountain  of  loadstone.  When  an}'  vessels  came  near  it. 
they  were  iustantW  deprived  of  their  ironwork : the  nails 
flew  to  the  mountain,  and  the  uuhapp}'  crew  perished  amidst 
the  disjointed  planks. 

July  30. 

Albert  is  amved,  and  I must  take  my  departure.  TTere 
he  the  best  and  noblest  of  men,  and  I in  eveiy  respect  his 
inferior,  I could  not  endure  to  see  him  in  possession  of  such 
a perfect  being.  Possession  ! — enough,  Wilhelm  : her  be- 


I 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


39 


troth«l.J.s  here, — a fine,., worthy  fellow,  whom  one  cannot 
help  liking.  Fortunately  I was  not  present  at  their  meeting. 

It  would  have  broken  my  heai't ! And  he  is  so  considerate  : 
he  has  not  given  Charlotte  one  kiss  in  my  presence.  Heaven 
reward  him  for  it ! I must  love  him  for  the  respect  with 
which  he  treats  her.  He  shows  a regard  for  me,  but  for 
this  I suspect  I am  more  indebted  to  Charlotte  than  to  his 
own  fancy  for  me.  Women  have  a delicate  tact  in  such 
matters,  and  it  should  be  so.  They  cannot  alwaj’s  succeed 
in  keeping  two  rivals  on  terms  with  each  other ; but,  when 
they  do,  they  are  the  only  gainers. 

I cannot  help  esteeming  Albert.  The  coolness  of  his 
temper  contrasts  strongly  with  the  impetuosity  of  mine, 
which  I cannot  conceal.  He  has  a great  deal  cf  feeling,  and 
is  fully  sensible  of  the  treasure  he  possesses  in  Charlotte. 
He  is  free  from  ill-humor,  which  you  know  is  the  fault  I 
detest  most. 

He  regards  me  as  a man  of  sense  ; and  my  attachment  to 
Charlotte,  and  the  interest  I take  in  all  that  concerns  her, 
augment  his  triumph  and  his  love.  I shall  not  inquire 
whether  he  may  not  at  times  tease  her  with  some  little  jeal- 
ousies ; as  I know,  that,  were  I in  his  place,  I should  not  be 
entirely  free  from  such  sensations. 

But,  be  that  as  it  majq  my  pleasure  with  Charlotte  is  over."\ 
Call  it  folly  or  infatuation,  what  signifies  a name?  The 
thing  speaks  for  itself.  Before  Albert  came,  I knew  all  that  j 
I know  now.  I knew  I could  make  no  pretensions  to  her, 
nor  did  I offer  any,  — that  is,  as  far  as  it  was  possible,  in 
the  presence  of  so  m ich  loveliness,  not  to  pant  for  its  enjoy- 
ment. And  now  behold  me,  like  a sill}'  fellow,  staring  with 
astonishment  when  another  comes  in,  and  deprives  me  of  my 
love. 

I bite  my  lips,  and  feel  infinite  scorn  for  those  who  tell  me 
to  be  resigned,  because  there  is  no  help  for  it.  Let  me  escape 
from  the  yoke  of  such  silly  subterfuges  ! I ramble  thro’’ 
the  woods  ; and  when  I return  to  Charlotte,  and  find 
sitting  by  her  side  in  the  summer-house  in  the  gar"’ 
unable  to  bear  it,  behave  like  a fool,  and  commit 
extravagances.  “For  Heaven’s  sake,’’  said  ^ 
day,  “let  us  have  no  more  scenes  like  those  • 

You  terrify  me  when  }'ou  are  so  violent.” 
selves,  I am  always  away  now  when  he  visit" 
delighted  when  I find  her  alone. 


40 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


Aug.  8. 

Believe  me,  clear  Wilhelm,  I did  not  allude  to  you  when  I 
spoke  so  severety  of  those  v,'ho  advise  resignation  to  inevit- 
able fate.  I did  not  thiuk  it  possible  for  you  to  indulge  such 
a sentiment.  But  in  fact  you  are  right.  I only  suggest  one 
objection.  In  this  world  one  is  seldom  reduced  to  make  a 
selection  between  two  alternatives.  There  are  as  many 
varieties  of  conduct  and  opinion  as  there  are  turns  of  feature 
between  an  aqiiQine  nose  and  a flat  one. 

You  will,  therefore,  i)erinit  me  to  concede  your  entire 
argument,  and  yet  contrive  means  to  escape  your  dilemma. 

Your  position  is  this,  I hear  j'ou  say:  ‘ ‘ Either  }’OU  have 
hopes  of  obtaining  Charlotte,  or  you  have  none.  Well,  in 
the  first  case,  pursue  j’our  course,  and  press  on  to  the  fulfil- 
ment of  your  wishes.  In  the  second,  be  a man,  and  shake 
off  a miserable  passion,  which  will  enervate  and  destroy 
you.”  My  dear  friend,  this  is  well  and  easily  said. 

But  would  you  require  a wretched  being,  whose  life  is 
slowly  wasting  under  a lingering  disease,  to  despatch  himself 
at  once  by  the  stroke  of  a dagger?  Does  not  the  veiy  dis- 
order which  consumes  his  strength  deprive  him  of  the  courage 
to  effect  his  deliverance  ? 

You  may  answmr  me,  if  you  please,  with  a similar  analog}*. 
“ Yfho  would  not  prefer  the  amputation  of  an  arm  to  the 
perilling  of  life  by  cloubt  and  procrastination?  ” But  I know 
not  if  I am  right,  and  let  us  leave  these  comparisons. 

Enough  ! There  are  moments,  Wilhelm,  when  I could  rise 
up  and  shake  it  all  off,  and  when,  if  I only  knew  where  to 
go,  I could  fly  from  this  place. 


The  same  evexij.'G. 

j\Iy  diary,  which  I have  for  some  time  neglected,  came 
before  me  to-day  ; and  I am  amazed  to  see  how  deliberately  I 
have  entangled  myself  step  by  step.  To  have  seen  my  posi- 
n so  clearly,  and  yet  to  have  acted  so  like  a child  I Even 
’>ehold  the  result  plaiqly,  and  yet  have  no  thought  of 
greater  prudence. 


Aug.  10. 

>t  a fool,  I could  spend  the  happiest  and  most 
ere.  So  many  agreeable  circumstances,  and 
are  a worth}'  man's  happiness,  are  seldom 
*eel  it  too  sensibly,  — the  heart  alone  makes 
To  be  admitted  into  this  most  charming 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


41 


family,  to  be  loved  by  the  father  as  a son,  by  the  children  as 
a father,  and  by  Charlotte! — then  the  noble  Albert,  who 
never  disturbs  mj'  happiness  by  anj'  appearance  of  ill-humor, 
receiving  me  with  the  heartiest  affection,  and  loving  me,  next 
to  Charlotte,  better  than  all  the  world  1 AYilhelm.  yon  would 
be  delighted  to  hear  us  in  our  rambles,  and  conversations 
about  Charlotte.  Nothing  in  the  world  can  be  more  absurd 
than  our  connection,  and  yet  the  thought  of  it  often  moves 
me  to  tears. 

He  tells  me  sometimes  of  her  excellent  mother  ; how,  upon 
her  death-bed,  she  had  committed  her  house  and  children  to 
Charlotte,  and  had  given  Charlotte  herself  in  charge  to  him ; 
how,  since  that  time,  a new  spirit  had  taken  possession  of 
her ; how,  in  care  and  anxiety  for  their  welfare,  she  became 
a real  mother  to  them  ; how  every  moment  of  her  time  was 
devoted  to  some  labor  of  love  in  their  behalf,  — and  yet  her 
mirth  and  cheerfulness  had  never  forsaken  her.  1 walk  by 
his  side,  pluck  flowers  b}'  the  way,  arrange  them  carefully 
into  a nosega}',  then  fling  them  into  the  first  stream  I pass, 
and  watch  them  as  the}'  float  gently  away.  I forget  whether 
I told  you  that  Albert  is  to  remain  here.  He  has  received  a 
government  appointment,  with  a very  good  salary ; and  I 
understand  he  is  in  high  favor  at  court.  I have  met  few 
persons  so  punctual  and  methodical  in  business. 


Aug.  12. 

Certainly  Albert  is  the  best  fellow  in  the  world.  I had  a 
strange  scene  with  him  yesterday.  I went  to  take  leave  of 
him ; for  I took  it  into  my  head  to  spend  a few  days  in  these 
mountains,  from  where  I now  write  to  you.  As  I was  walk- 
ing up  and  down  his  room,  my  eye  fell  upon  his  pistols. 
“ Lend  me  those  pistols,”  said  I,  “ for  my  journey.”  — ” B}* 
all  means,”  he  replied,  “ if  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  load 
them  ; for  they  only  hang  there  for  form.”  I took  down  one 
of  them  ; and  ha  continued,  ” Ever  since  I was  near  suffering 
for  my  extreme  caution,  I will  have  nothing  to  do  with  such 
things.”  I was  curious  to  hear  the  story.  “ I was  staying,” 
said  he,  “ some  three  months  ago,  at  a friend’s  house  in  the 
country.  I had  a brace  of  pistols  with  me,  unloaded  ; and  I 
slept  without  any  anxiety.  One  rainy  afternoon  I was  sitting 
by  myself,  doing  nothing,  when  it  occurred  to  me  — 1 do 
not  know  how  — that  the  house  might  be  attacked,  that  we 
might  require  the  pistols,  that  we  might  — in  short,  you  know 
how  we  go  on  fancying,  when  we  have  nothing  better  to  do. 


42 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


I gave  the  pistols  to  the  servant,  to  clean  and  load.  He  was 
playing  with  the  maid,  and  trying  to  frighten  her,  when  the 
pistol  v>^ent  off  — God  knows  how  ! — the  ramrod  was  in  the 
barrel ; and  it  went  straight  through  her  right  hand,  and  shat- 
tered the  thumb.  I had  to  endure  all  the  lamentation,  and 
to  pay  the  surgeon’s  bill ; so,  since  that  time,  I have  kept 
all  my  weapons  unloaded.  But,  my  clear  friend,  what  is  the 
use  of  prudence?  We  can  never  be  on  our  guard  against  all 
possible  dangers.  However,” — now,  you  must  know  I can 
tolerate  all  men  till  they  come  to  “ however  ; ” for  it  is  self- 
evident  that  every  universal  rule  must  have  its  exceptions. 
But  he  is  so  exceedingly  accurate,  that,  if  he  only  fancies  he 
has  said  a word  too  precipitate,  or  too  general,  or  only  half 
true,  he  never  ceases  to  qualify,  to  modify,  and  extenuate, 
till  at  last  he  appears  to  have  said  nothing  at  all.  Upon  this 
occasion,  Albert  was  deeply  immersed  in  his  subject ; I 
ceased  to  listen  to  him,  and  became  lost  in  revery.  With 
a sudden  motion,  I pointed  the  mouth  of  the  pistol  to  my 
forehead,  over  the  right  eye.  “ What  do  you  mean?  ” cried 
Albert,  turning  back  the  pistol.  “It  is  not  loaded,”  said 
I.  “And  even  if  not,”  he  answered  with  impatience, 
“what  can  3'ou  mean?  I cannot  comprehend  how  a man 
can  be  so  mad  as  to  shoot  himself,  and  the  bare  idea  of  it 
shocks  me.” 

“ But  whj'  should  any  one,”  said  I,  “in  speaking  of  an 
action,  venture  to  pronounce  it  mad  or  wise,  or  good  or 
bad?  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?  Have  jmu  earefulh’ 
studied  the  secret  motives  of  our  actions?  Do  you  under- 
stand— can  j’ou  explain  the  causes  which  occasion  them,  and 
make  them  inevitable?  If  jmu  can,  you  will  be  less  hasfy 
with  your  decision.” 

“ But  you  will  allow,”  said  Albert,  “ that  some  actions 
are  criminal,  let  them  spring  from  whatever  motives  they 
may.”  I gi'anted  it,  and  shrugged  mv  shoulders. 

“But  still,  mj^  good  friend,”  I continued,  “there  are 
some  exceptions  here  too.  Theft  is  a crime  ; but  the  man 
who  commits  it  from  extreme  poverty,  with  no  design  but  to 
save  his  famify  from  perishing,  is  he  an  object  of  pify.  or  of 
punishment?  Who  shall  throw  the  first  stone  at  a husband, 
who,  in  the  heat  of  just  resentment,  sacrifices  his  faithless 
wife  and  her  perfidious  seducer?  or  at  the  young  maiden, 
who,  in  her  weak  hour  of  rapture,  forgets  herself  in  the 
impetuous  joys  of  love  ? Even  our  laws,  cold  and  cruel  as 
they  are,  releut  in  such  cases,  and  withhold  their  punish- 
ment ” 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


“That  is  quite  another  thing,”  said  Albert ; “because  a 
man  under  the  influence  of  violent  passion  loses  all  power 
of  reflection,  and  is  regarded  as  intoxicated  or  insane.” 

“Oh!  you  people  of  sound  understandings,”  I replied, 
smiling,  “are  ever  ready  to  exclaim  ‘Extravagance  and 
madness,  and  intoxication ! ’ You  moral  men  are  so  calm 
and  so  subdued  I You  abhor  the  drunken  man,  and  detest 
the  extravagant ; you  pass  by,  lilee  the  Levite,  and  thank 
God,  like  the  Pharisee,  that  you  are  not  like  one  of  them.  I 
have  been  more  than  once  intoxicated,  my  passions  have 
always  bordered  on  extravagance : I am  not  ashamed  to 
confess  it ; for  I have  learned,  by  my  own  experience,  that 
all  extraordinary  men,  who  have  accomplished  great  and 
astonishing  actions,  have  ever  been  decried  by  the  world  as 
drunken  or  insane.  And  in  private  life,  too,  is  it  not  in- 
tolerable that  no  one  can  nndertake  the  execution  of  a noble 
or  generous  deed,  without  giving  rise  to  the  exclamation  that 
the  doer  is  intoxicated  or  mad?  Shame  upon  you,  ye 
sages ! ’ ’ 

“This  is  another  of  your  extravagant  humors,”  said 
Albert:  “you  alwaj's  exaggerate  a case,  and  in  this  matter 
you  are  undoubtedly  wrong  ; for  we  were  speaking  of  suicide, 
which  you  compare  with  great  actions,  when  it  is  impossible 
to  regard  it  as  anj'  thing  but  a weakness.  It  is  much  easier 
to  die  than  to  bear  a life  of  misery  with  fortitude.” 

I w'as  on  the  point  of  breaking  off  the  conversation,  for 
nothing  puts  me  so  completely  out  of  patience  as  the  utter- 
ance of  a wretched  commonplace  when  I am  talking  from 
my  inmost  heart.  However,  1 composed  myself,  for  I had 
often  heard  the  same  observation  with  sufficient  vexation  ; 
and  I answered  him,  therefore,  with  a little  warmth,  “You 
call  this  a weakness  — beware  of  beiug  led  astray  by  appear- 
ances. When  a nation,  which  has  long  groaned  under  the 
intolerable  yoke  of  a tyrantf  rises  at  last  and  throws  off  its 
chains,  do  you  call  that  weakness  ? The  man  who,  to  rescue 
his  house  from  the  flames,  finds  his  physical  strength  re- 
doubled, so  that  he  lifts  burdens  with  ease,  which,  in  the 
absence  of  excitement,  he  could  scarcely  move  ; he  who,  under 
the  rage  of  an  insult,  attacks  and  puts  to  flight  half  a score  of 
his  enemies,  — are  such  persons  to  be  called  weak  ? My  good 
friend,  if  resistance  be  strength,  how  can  the  highest  degree 
of  resistance  be  a weakness  ? ’ ’ 

Albert  looked  steadfastly  at  me,  and  said,  “Pray  forgive 
me,  but  I do  not  see  that  the  examples  you  have  adduced  bear 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


any  relation  to  the  question.”  — “ Very  likely,”  I answered  ; 
“ for  I have  often  been  told  that  my  style  of  illustration 
borders  a little  on  the  absurd.  But  let  us  see  if  we  cannot 
place  the  matter  in  another  point  of  view,  by  inquiring  what 
can  be  a man’s  state  of  mind  who  resolves  to  free  himself 
from  the  burden  of  life,  — a burden  often  so  pleasant  to 
bear,  — for  we  cannot  otherwise  reason  fairly  upon  the 
subject. 

“Human  nature,”  I continued,  “has  its  limits.  It  is 
able  to  endure  a certain  degree  of  joy,  sorrow,  and  pain,  but 
becomes  annihilated  as  soon  as  this  measure  is  exceeded. 
The  question,  therefore,  is,  not  whether  a man  is  strong  or 
weak,  but  whether  he  is  able  to  endure  the  measure  of  his 
sufferings.  The  suffering  may  be  moral  or  phj’sical ; and  in 
my  opinion  it  is  just  as  absurd  to  call  a man  a coward  who 
destroys  himself,  as  to  caU  a man  a coward  who  dies  of  a 
malignant  fever.” 

“ Baradox,  all  paradox!”  exclaimed  Albert.  “ Xot  so 
paradoxical  as  you  imagine,”  I replied.  “ You  allow  that 
we  designate  a disease  as  mortal  when  nature  is  so  severely 
attacked,  and  her  strength  so  far  exhausted,  that  she  cannot 
possibly  recover  her  former  condition  under  any  change  that 
may  take  place. 

“ Now,  mj'  good  friend,  appl}^  this  to  the  mind ; observe  a 
man  in  his  natural,  isolated  condition  ; consider  how  ideas 
work,  and  how  impressions  fasten  on  him,  till  at  length  a 
violent  passion  seizes  him,  destroying  all  his  powers  of  calm 
reflection,  and  utterly  ruining  him. 

“It  is  in  vain  that  a man  of  sound  mind  and  cool  temper 
understands  the  condition  of  such  a wretched  being,  in  vain 
he  counsels  him.  He  can  no  more  communicate  his  own 
wisdom  to  him  than  a health}^  man  can  instil  his  strength 
into  the  invalid,  by  whose  bedside  he  is  seated.” 

Albert  thought  this  too  general.  I reminded  him  of  a girl 
who  had  drowned  herself  a short  time  previouslj’,  and  I 
related  her  history. 

She  was  a good  creature,  who  had  grown  up  in  the  narrow 
sphere  of  household  industry  and  weekly-appointed  labor ; 
one  who  knew  no  pleasure  be3'ond  indulging  in  a walk  on 
Suuda3's,  arrayed  in  her  best  attire,  accompanied  by  her 
friends,  or  perhaps  joining  in  the  dance  now  and  then  at 
some  festival,  and  chatting  away  her  spare  hours  with  a 
neighbor,  discussing  the  scandal  or  the  quaiTcls  of  the  vil- 
lage,— trifles  sufficient  to  oocupv  her  heart.  At  length  the 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


45 


warmth  of  her  nature  is  influenced  by  certain  new  and 
unknown  wishes.  Inflamed  by  the  flatteries  of  men,  her 
former  pleasures  become  by  degrees  insipid,  tiU  at  length 
she  meets  with  a youth  to  whom  she  is  attracted  by  an 
indescribable  feeling ; upon  him  she  now  rests  all  her  hopes  ; 
she  forgets  the  world  around  her ; she  sees,  hears,  desires 
nothing  but  him,  and  him  only.  He  alone  occupies  all  her 
thoughts.  Uncorrupted  by  the  idle  iudulgence  of  an  enervat- 
ing vanity,  her  affection  moving  steadily  towards  its  object, 
she  hopes  to  become  his,  and  to  realize,  in  an  everlasting 
union  with  him,  all  that  happiness  which  she  sought,  all  that 
bliss  for  which  she  longed.  His  repeated  promises  confirm 
her  hopes  : embraces  and  endearments,  which  increase  the 
ardor  of  her  desires,  overmaster  her  soul.  She  floats  in  a 
dim,  delusive  anticipation  of  her  happiness  ; and  her  feelings 
become  excited  to  their  utmost  tension.  She  stretches  out 
her  arms  finally  to  embrace  the  object  of  all  her  wishes  — 
and  her  lover  forsakes  her.  Stunned  and  bewildered,  she 
stands  upon  a precipice.  All  is  darkness  around  her.  No 
prospect,  no  hope,  no  consolation — forsaken  by  him  in  whom 
her  existence  was  centred ! She  sees  nothing  of  the  wide 
world  before  her,  thinks  nothing  of  the  man}’  individuals 
who  might  suppl}’  the  void  in  her  heart ; she  feels  herself 
deserted,  forsaken  by  the  world  ; and,  blinded  and  impelled 
by  the  agony  which  wrings  her  soul,  she  plunges  into  the 
deep,  to  end  her  sufferings  in  the  broad  embrace  of  death. 
See  here,  Albert,  the  history  of  thousands  ; and  tell  me,  is 
not  this  a case  of  physical  infinnit}’  ? Nature  has  no  way  to 
escape  from  the  labyrinth  : her  powers  are  exhausted ; she 
can  contend  no  longer,  and  the  poor  soul  must  die. 

“ Shame  upon  him  who  can  look  on  calmly,  and  exclaim, 
‘ The  foolish  girl ! she  should  have  waited  : she  should  have 
allowed  time  to  wear  off  the  impression ; her  despair  would 
have  been  softened,  and  she  would  have  found  another  lover 
to  comfort  her.’  One  might  as  well  say,  ‘The  fool,  to  die 
of  a fever  ! why  did  he  not  wait  till  his  strength  was  restored, 
till  his  blood  became  calm?  all  would  then  have  gone  well, 
and  he  would  have  been  alive  now.’  ” 

Albert,  who  could  not  see  the  justice  of  the  comparison, 
offered  some  further  objections,  and,  amongst  others,  urged 
that  I had  taken  the  case  of  a mere  ignorant  girl.  But  how 
any  man  of  sense,  of  more  enlarged  views  and  experience, 
could  be  excused,  he  was  unable  to  comprehend.  “ My 
Inend ! ” I exclaimed,  “ man  is  but  man ; and,  whatever  be 


46 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


the  extent  of  his  reasoning  powers,  they  are  of  little  avail 
when  passion  rages  within,  and  he  feels  himself  confined  by 
the  nan’ow  limits  of  nature.  It  were  better,  then  — but  we 
will  talk  of  this  some  other  time,”  I said,  and  caught  up  my 
hat.  Alas  ! my  heart  was  full ; and  we  parted  without  con- 
viction on  either  side.  How  rarely  in  this  world  do  men 
understand  each  other ! 


Aug.  15. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  in  this  world  nothing  is  so  in- 
dispensable as  love.  I observe  that  Charlotte  could  not  lose 
me  without  a pang,  and  the  veiy  children  have  but  one  wish ; 
that  is,  that  I should  visit  them  again  to-morrow.  I went  this 
afternoon  to  tune  Charlotte’s  piano.  But  I could  not  do  it, 
for  the  little  ones  insisted  on  my  telling  them  a story ; and 
Charlotte  herself  urged  me  to  satisfy  them.  I waited  upon 
them  at  tea,  and  they  are  now  as  fully  contented  with  me  as 
with  Charlotte ; and  I told  them  m\'  very  best  tale  of  the 
princess  who  was  waited  upon  by  dwarfs.  I improve  myself 
by  this  exercise,  and  am  quite  surprised  at  the  impression  my 
stories  create.  Jf  I sometimes  invent  aii  incident  which  I 
forget  upon  the  next  narration,  they  remind  me  directly  that 
the  stoi-y  was  different  before  ; so  that  I now  endeavor  to 
relate  with  exactness  the  same  anecdote  in  the  same  monot- 
onous tone,  which  never  changes.  I find  by  this,  how  much 
an  author  injures  his  works  ly  altering  them,  even  though 
they  be  improved  in  a poetical  point  of  view.  The  first 
impression  is  readily  received.  We  are  so  constituted  that 
we  believe  the  most  incredible  things : and,  once  they  are 
engraved  upon  the  memoiy,  woe  to  him  who  would  endeavor 
to  efface  them. 


Aug.  is. 

Must  it  ever  be  thus,  — that  the  source  of  our  happiness 
must  also  be  the  fountain  of  our  misery?  The  full  and  ardent 
sentiment  which  animated  m3'  heart  with  the  love  of  nature, 
overwhelming  me  with  a torrent  of  delight,  and  which  brought 
all  paradise  before  me,  has  now  become  an  insupportable 
torment,  — a demon  which  perpetuall}'  pursues  and  harasses 
me.  When  in  by-gone  cla3's  I gazed  from  these  rocks  upon 
yonder  mountains  across  the  river,  and  upon  the  green,  flowery 
•valley  before  me,  and  saw  all  nature  budding  and  bursting 
around  ; the  hills  clothed  from  foot  to  peak  with  tall,  tlnck 
forest  trees  : the  vallevs  in  all  their  varied  windings,  shaded 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


47 


with  the  loveliest  woods ; and  the  soft  river  gliding  along 
amongst  the  lisping  reeds,  mirroring  the  beantiful  clouds 
which  the  soft  evening  breeze  wafted  across  the  sky,  — ■when  I 
heard  the  groves  about  me  melodious  with  the  music  of  birds, 
and  saw  the  million  swarms  of  insects  dancing  in  the  last 
golden  beams  of  the  sun,  whose  setting  rays  awoke  the 
humming  beetles  from  their  grassy  beds,  whilst  the  subdued 
tumult  around  directed  mj'  attention  to  the  ground,  and  I 
there  observed  the  arid  rock  compelled  to  yield  nutriment  to 
the  dry  moss,  whilst  the  heath  flourished  upon  the  barren 
sands  below  me,  — all  this  displayed  to  me  the  inner  warmth 
which  animates  all  nature,  and  tilled  and  glowed  within  my 
heai’t.  I felt  myself  exalted  by  this  overflowing  fulness  to 
the  perception  of  the  Godhead,  and  the  glorious  forms  of  an 
infinite  universe  became  visible  to  my  soul ! Stupendous 
mountains  encompassed  me,  abysses  yawned  at  my  feet,  and 
cataracts  fell  headlong  down  before  me ; impetuous  rivers 
rolled  through  the  plain,  and  rocks  and  mountains  resounded 
from  afar.  In  the  depths  of  the  earth  I saw  innumerable 
powers  in  motion,  and  multiplying  to  infinity  ; whilst  upon  its 
surface,  and  beneath  the  heavens,  there  teemed  ten  thousand 
varieties  of  living  creatures.  Every  thing  around  is  alive  with 
an  infinite  number  of  forms  ; while  mankind  fly  for  security 
to  their  petty  houses,  from  the  shelter  of  which  they  rule  in 
their  imaginations  over  the  wide-extended  universe.  Poor 
fool!  in  whose  petty  estimation  all  things  are  little.  From 
the  inaccessible  mountains,  across  the  desert  which  no  mortal 
foot  has  trod,  far  as  the  confines  of  the  unknown  ocean, 
breathes  the  spirit  of  the  eternal  Creator ; and  every  atom  to 
which  he  has  given  existence  finds  favor  in  his  sight.  Ah, 
how  often  at  that  time  has  the  flight  of  a bird,  soaring  above 
my  head,  inspired  me  with  the  desire  of  being  transported  to 
the  shores  of  the  immeasurable  waters,  there  to  quaff  the 
pleasures  of  life  from  the  foaming  goblet  of  the  Infinite,  and 
to  partake,  if  but  for  a moment  even,  with  the  confined  powers 
of  my  soul,  the  beatitude  of  that  Creator  who  accomplishes 
all  things  in  himself,  and  through  himself  ! 

My  dear  friend,  the  bare  recollection  of  those  hours  still 
consoles  me.  Even  this  effort  to  recall  those  ineffable  sen- 
sations, and  give  them  utterance,  exalts  my  soul  above  itself, 
and  makes  me  doubly  feel  the  intensity  of  my  present 
anguish. 

It  is  as  if  a curtain  had  been  drawn  from  before  my  eyes, 
and,  instead  of  prdfepects  of  eternal  life,  the  abyss  of  an  ever 


48 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


open  grave  yawned  before  me.  Can  we  say  of  any  thing  that 
it  exists  when  all  passes  away,  — when  time,  with  the  speed  of 
a storm,  carries  all  things  onward,  — and  our  transitory  exist- 
ence, hurried  along  by  the  torrent,  is  either  swallowed  up  by 
the  waves  or  dashed  against  the  rocks  ? There  is  not  a mo- 
ment but  preys  upon  you,  and  upon  all  around  you,  — not  a 
moment  in  which  you  do  not  yourself  become  a destroyer. 
The  most  innocent  walk  deprives  of  life  thousands  of  poor 
insects  : one  step  destroys  the  fabric  of  the  industrious  ant, 
and  converts  a little  world  into  chaos.  No : it  is  not  the 
great  and  rare  calamities  of  the  world,  the  floods  which  sweep 
away  whole  villages,  the  earthquakes  which  swallow  up  our 
towns,  that  affect  me.  My  heart  is  wasted  by  the  thought 
of  that  destructive  power  which  lies  concealed  in  every  part  "Of 
. universal  nature.  Nature  has  formed  nothing  that  does  not 
consume  itself,  and  every  object  near  it : so  that,  surrounded 
by  earth  and  air,  and  all  the  active  powers,  I wander  on  my 
^'ivay  with  aching  heart ; and  the  universe  is  to  me  a fearful 
monster,  forever  devouring  its  own  offspring. 

Aug.  21. 

In  vain  do  I stretch  out  my  anns  towards  her  when  I 
awaken  in  the  morning  from  my  weary  slumbers.  In  vain 
do  I seek  for  her  at  night  in  my  bed,  when  some  innocent 
dream  has  happily  deceived  me,  and  placed  her  near  me  in 
the  fields,  when  I have  seized  her  hand  and  covered  it  with 
countless  kisses.  And  when  I feel  for  her  in  the  half  con- 
fusion of  sleep,  with  the  happy  sense  that  she  is  near  me, 
tears  flow  from  my  oppressed  heart ; and,  bereft  of  all  com- 
fort, I weep  over  my  future  woes. 


Aug.  22. 

What  a misfortune,  Wilhelm ! My  active  spirits  have 
degenerated  into  contented  indolence.  I cannot  be  idle,  and 
yet  I am  unable  to  set  to  work.  I cannot  think : I have 
)io  longer  any  feeling  for  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  books 
are  distasteful  to  me.  Once  we  give  ourselves  up,  we  are 
totally  lost.  Many  a time  and  oft  I wish  I were  a common 
laborer ; that,  awakening  in  the  morning,  I might  have  but 
one  prospect,  one  pursuit,  one  hope,  for  the  day  which  has 
dawned.  I often  envy  Albert  when  I see  him  buried  in  a heap 
of  papers  and  parchments,  and  I fancy  I should  be  happy  were 
I in  his  place.  Often  impressed  with  this  feeling,  I have  been 
on  the  point  of  writing  to  you  and  to  the  minister,  for  the 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


49 


appointment  at  the  embassy,  which  you  think  I might  obtain. 
I believe  I might  procure  it.  The  minister  has  long  shown  a 
regard  for  me,  and  has  frequently  urged  me  to  seek  employ- 
ment. It  is  the  business  of  an  hour  only.  Now  and  then 
the  fable  of  the  horse  recurs  to  me.  Weary  of  liberty,  he 
suffered  himself  to  be  saddled  and  bridled,  and  was  ridden  to 
death  for  his  pains.  I know  not  what  to  determine  upon. 
For  is  not  this  anxiety  for  change  the  consequence  of  that 
restless  spirit  which  would  pursue  me  equally  in  every  situa- 
tion of  life? 


Aug.  28. 

If  my  ills  would  admit  of  any  cure,  they  would  certainly 
be  cured  here.  This  is  my  birthday^  and  early  in  the  morn- 
ing I received  a packet  from  Albert.  Upon  opening  it,  I 
found  one  of  the  pink  ribbons  which  Charlotte  wore  in  her 
dress  the  first  time  I saw  her,  and  which  I had  several  times 
asked  her  to  give  me.  With  it  were  two  volumes  in  duo- 
decimo of  Wetsteiu’s  Homer,  a book  I had  often  wished  for, 
to  save  me  the  inconvenience  of  carrying  the  large  Ernestine 
edition  with  me  upon  my  walks.  You  see  how  thej"  antici- 
pate my  wishes,  how  well  they  understand  all  those  little 
attentions  of  friendship,  so  superior  to  the  costly  presents  of 
the  great,  which  are  humiliating.  I kissed  the  ribbon  a 
thousand  times,  and  in  every  breath  inhaled  the  remem- 
brance of  those  happy  and  irrevocable  days  which  filled  me 
with  the  keenest  joy.  Such,  Wilhelm,  is  our  fate.  I do  not 
murmur  at  it : the  flowers  -of  life  are.  but  visionary.  How 
many  pass  away,  and  leave  no  trace  behind  — how  few  yield 
any  fruit — and  the  fruit  itself,  how  rarely  does  it  ripen! 
And  yet  there  are  flowers  enough!  — and  is  it  not  strange,  ' 
my  friend,  that  we  should  suffer  the  little  that  does  really 
ripen,  to  rot,  decay,  and  perish  unenjoyed?  Farewell!  Tills 
is  a glorious  summer.  I often  climb  into  the  trees  in  Char- 
lotte’s orchard,  and  shake  down  the  pears  that  hang  on  the  , 
highest  branches.  She  stands  below,  and  catches  them  as 
they  fall. 


5 


Aug.  30. 

Unhappy  being  that  I am  ! Whj’  do  I thus  deceive  my- 
self? What  is  to  come  of  all  this  wild,  aimless,  endless 
passion?  I cannot  pray  except  to  her.  My  imagination 
sees  nothing  but  her : all  surrounding  objects  are  of  no  ac- 
count, except  as  they  relate  to  her.  In  this  dreamy  state  I 


50 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


enjoy  many  happy  hours,  till  at  length  I feel  compelled  to 
tear  myself  away  from  her.  Ah,  Wilhelm,  to  what  does  not 
my  heart  often  compel  me  ! When  I have  spent  several  hours 
in  her  company,  till  I feel  completely  absorbed  bj’  her  figure, 
her  grace,  the  divine  expression  of  her  thoughts,  my  mind 
becomes  gradually  excited  to  the  highest  excess,  m}'  sight 
grows  dim,  my  hearing  confused,  my  breathing  oppressed  as 
if  by  the  hand  of  a murderer,  and  my  beating  heart  seeks  to 
obtain  relief  for  my  aching  senses.  I am  sometimes  uncon- 
scious whether  I really  exist.  If  in  such  moments  I find  no 
sympathy,  and  Charlotte  does  not  allow  me  to  enjoy  the 
melancholy  consolation  of  bathing  her  hand  with  my  tears,  I 
feel  compelled  to  tear  myself  from  her,  when  I either  wander 
through  the  country,  climb  some  precipitous  cliff,  or  force  a 
path  through  the  trackless  thicket,  where  I am  lacerated  and 
torn  by  thorns  and  briers ; and  thence  I find  relief.  Some- 
times I lie  stretched  on  the  ground,  overcome  with  fatigue 
and  dying  with  thirst ; sometimes,  late  in  the  night,  when 
the  moon  shines  above  me,  I recline  against  an  aged  tree  in 
some  sequestered  forest,  to  rest  my  weary  limbs,  when,  ex- 
hausted- and  worn,  I sleep  till  break  of  day.  O Wilhelm ! 
the  hennit’s  cell,  his  sackcloth,  and  gh’dle  of  thorns  would 
be  luxury  and  indulgence  compared  with  what  I suffer. 
Adieu  ! I see  no  end  to  this  wretchedness  except  the  grave. 

Sept.  3. 

I must  away.  Thank  you,  Wilhelm,  for  determining  m3' 
wavering  purpose.  For  a whole  fortnight  I have  thought  of 
leaving  her.  I must  away.  She  has  returned  to  town,  and 
is  at  the  house  of  a friend.  And  then,  Albert — 3'es,  I must 
go. 

Sept.  10. 

Oh,  what  a night,  Wilhelm ! I can  henceforth  bear  anv 
thing.  1 shall  never  see  her  again.  Oh,  why  cannot  I fall 
on  3'our  neck,  and,  with  floods  of  tears  and  raptures,  give 
utterance  to  all  the  passions  which  distract  m3'  heart ! Here 
1 sit  gasping  for  breath,  and  struggling  to  compose  myself. 
I wait  for  da3',  and  at  sunrise  the  horses  are  to  be  at  the 
door. 

And  she  is  sleeping  calmly,  little  suspecting  that  she  has 
seen  me  for  the  last  time.  I am  free.  I have  had  the 
courage,  in  an  interview  of  two  hours’  duration,  not  to  be- 
tray iu3'  intention.  And  O Wilhelm,  what  a conversation  it 
was ! 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


51 


Albert  had  promised  to  come  to  Charlotte  in  the  garden 
immediately  after  supper.  I was  upon  the  terrace  under  the 
tall  chestnut-trees,  and  watched  the  setting  sun.  I saw  him 
sink  for  the  last  time  beneath  this  delightful  valley  and  silent 
stream.  I had  often  visited  the  same  spot  with  Charlotte, 
and  witnessed  that  glorious  sight ; and  now  — I was  walking 
up  and  down  the  very  avenue  which  was  so  dear  to  me.  A 
secret  sympathy  had  frequently  drawn  me  thither  before  I ' 
knew  Charlotte';  and  we  were  delighted  when,  in  our  early 
acquaintance,  we  discovered  that  we  each  loved  the  same 
spot,  which  is  indeed  as  romantic  as  any  that  ever  captivated 
the  fancy  of  an  artist. 

From  beneath  the  chestnut-trees,  there  is  an  extensive 
view.  But  I remember  that  I have  mentioned  all  this  in  a 
former  letter,  and  have  described  the  tall  mass  of  beach-trees 
at  the  end,  and  how  the  avenue  grows_darker  and  darker  as 
it  winds  its  way'amongdhem,  till  it  ends  in  a gloomy  recess, 
which  has  all  the  charm  of  a mysterious  solitude.  1 still 
remember  the  strange  feeling  of  melancholy  which  came  over 
me  the  first  time  I entered  that  dark  retreat,  at  bright  mid- 
day. I felt  some  secret  foreboding  that  it  would,  one  day, 
be  to  me  the  scene  of  some  happiness  or  misery. 

I had  spent  half  an  hour  struggling  between  the  contending 
thoughts  of  going  and  returning,  when  I heard  them  coming 
up  tlie  terrace.  I ran  to  meet  them.  I trembled  as  I took 
her  hand,  and  kissed  it.  As  we  reached  the  top  of  the 
terrace,  the  moon  rose  from  behind  the  wooded  hill.  We 
conversed  on  many  subjects,  and,  without  perceiving  it,  ap- 
proached the  gloomy  recess.  Charlotte  entered,  and  sat 
down.  Albert  seated  himself  beside  her.  I did  the  same, 
but  my  agitation  did  not  suffer  me  to  remain  long  seated.  I 
got  up,  and  stood  before  her,  then  walked  backwards  and 
forwards,  and  sat  down  again.  I was  restless  and  miserable. 
Charlotte  drew  our  attention  to  the  beautiful  effect  of  the 
moonlight,  which  thr’ew  a silver  hue  over  the  terrace  in  front 
of  us,  bej'ond  the  beech-trees.  It  was  a glorious  sight,  and 
was  rendered  more  striking  by  the  darkness  which  surrounded 
the  spot  where  we  were.  We  remained  for  some  time  silent, 
when  Charlotte  observed,  ‘‘ Whenever  I walk  by  moonlight, 
it  brings  to  my  remembrance  all  my  beloved  and  departed 
friends,  and  I am  filled  with  thoughts  of  death  and  futurity. 
We  shall  live  again,  Werther!  ” she  continued,  with  a firm 
but  feeling  voice  ; but  shall  we  know  one  another  again  — 
what  do  you  think  ? what  do  you  say  ? ’ ’ 


52 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


“ Charlotte,”  I said,  as  I took  her  hand  in  mine,  and  my 
eyes  filled  with  tears,  “ we  shall  see  each  other  again  — here 
and  hereafter  w'e  shall  meet  again.”  I could  say  no  more. 
AVhy,  Wilhelm,  should  she  put  this  question  to  me.  just  at 
the  moment  when  the  fear  of  our  cmel  separation  filled  my 
heart  ? 

‘ ‘ And  oh  ! do  those  departed  ones  know  how  we  are  em- 
ployed here  ? do  they  know  when  we  are  well  and  happj'  ? do 
they  know  when  we  recall  their  memories  with  the  fondest 
love  ? In  the  silent  hour  of  evening  the  shade  of  my  mother 
hovers  round  me  ; when  seated  in  the  midst  of  my  children, 
I see  them  assembled  near  me,  as  they  used  to  assemble  near 
her;  and  then  I raise  my  anxious  eyes  to  heaven,  and  wish 
she  could  look  down  upon  us,  and  witness  how  I fulfil  the 
promise  I made  to  her  in  her  last  moments,  to  be  a mother 
to  her  children.  With  what  emotion  do  I then  exclaim, 
‘ Pardon,  dearest  of  mothers,  pardon  me.  if  I do  not  ade- 
quately supply  your  place  ! Alas  ! I do  my  utmost.  They 
are  clothed  and  fed ; and,  still  better,  they  are  loved  and 
educated.  Could  you  but  see,  sweet  saint!  the  peace  and 
harmony  that  dwells  amongst  us,  you  would  glorify  God  with 
the  warmest  feelings  of  gratitude,  to  whom,  in  your  last 
hour,  you  addressed  such  fervent  prayers  for  our  happi- 
ness.’” Thus  did  she  express  herseff ; but  O Wilhelm! 
who  can  do  justice  to  her  language  ? how  can  cold  and  pas- 
sionless words  convey  the  heavenly  expressions  of  the  spirit? 
Albert  interrupted  her  gently.  ” This  affects  you  too  deeply, 
my  dear  Charlotte.  I know  your  soul  dwells  on  such  recol- 
lections with  intense  delight;  but  I implore”  — '’O  Al- 
bert!” she  continued,  ‘‘I  am  sure  you  do  not  forget  the 
evenings  when  we  three  used  to  sit  at  the  little  round  table, 
when  papa  was  absent,  and  the  little  ones  had  retired.  You 
often  had  a good  book  with  a'ou,  but  seldom  read  it : the 
conversation  of  that  noble  being  was  preferable  to  every 
thing,  — that  beautiful,  bright,  gentle,  and  yet  ever-toiling 
woman.  God  alone  knows  how  1 have  supplicated  with  tears 
on  my  nightly  couch,  that  I might  be  like  her.” 

I threw  myself  at  her  feet,  and.  seizing  her  hand,  bedewed  it 
with  a thousand  tears.  ” Charlotte  ! ” I exclaimed.  *•  God’s 
blessing  and  }70ur  mother’s  spirit  are  upon  you.”  — “Oh! 
that  you  had  known  her,”  she  said,  with  a warm  pressure  of 
the  hand.  “ She  was  worth}’  of  being  Icnown  to  you.”  I 
thought  I should  have  fainted : never  had  I received  praise 
so  nattering.  She  continued,  “ And  yet  she  was  doomed  to 


SORROWS  OF  \VERTHER. 


53 


die  in  the  flower  of  her  youth,  when  her  youngest  child  was 
scarcely  six  mouths  old.  Her  illness  was  but  short,  but  she 
was  calm  and  resigned  ; and  it  was  only  for  her  children, 
especially  the  youngest,  that  she  felt  unhappy.  When  her 
end  drew  nigh,  she  bade  me  bring  them  to  her.  I obeyed. 
The  jmunger  ones  knew  nothing  of  their  approaching  loss, 
while  the  elder  ones  were  quite  overcome  with  grief.  They 
stood  around  the  bed  ; and  she  raised  her  feeble  hands  to 
heaven,  and  prayed  over  them  ; then,  kissing  them  in  turn, 
she  dismissed  them,  and  said  to  me,  ‘ Be  you  a mother  to 
them.’  I gave  her  1113^  hand.  ‘ You  are  promising  much,  my 
child,’  she  said  ; ' a mother’s  fondness  and  a mother’s  care  ! 
I have  often  witnessed,  by  your  tears  of  gratitude,  that  you 
know  what  is  a mother’s  tenderness ; show  it  to  jmur  broth- 
ers and  sisters,  and  be  dutiful  and  faithful  to  j'our  father 
as  a wife ; jmu  will  be  his  comfort.  ’ She  inquired  for  him. 
He  had  retired  to  conceal  his  intolerable  anguish, — he  was 
heartbroken. 

“ Albert,  you  were  in  the  room.  She  heard  some  one 
moving : she  inquired  who  it  was,  and  desired  }’ou  to  ap- 
proach. She  survej'ed  us  both  with  a look  of  composure 
and  satisfaction,  expressive  of  her  conviction  that  we  should 
be  happ3',  — happy  with  one  another.”  Albert  fell  upon  her 
neck,  and  kissed  her,  and  exclaimed,  “We  are  so,  and  we 
shall  be  so  1 ” Even  Albert,  generally  so  tranquil,  had  quite 
lost  his  composure  ; and  I was  excited  bejmnd  expression. 

“And  such  a being,”  she  continued,  “was  to  leave  us, 
-Werther ! Great  God,  must  w*e  thus  part  with  every  thing 
we  hold  dear  in  this  world  ? Nobody  felt  this  more  acutel}' 
than  the  children : they  cried  and  lamented  for  a long  time 
afterwards,  complaining  that  black  men  had  carried  away 
their  dear  mamma.” 

Charlotte  rose.  It  aroused  me ; but  I continued  sitting, 
and  held  her  hand.  “Let  us  go,”  she  said:  “it  grows 
late.F  She  attempted  to  withdraw  her  hand  : I held  it  still. 
“We  shall  see  each  other  again,”  I exclaimed:  “we  shall 
recognize  each  other  under  every  possible  change  ! I am 
going,”  I continued,  “going  willingl}' ; but,  should  I say 
forever,  perhaps  I ma\'  not  keep  my  word.  Adieu,  Char- 
lotte; adieu,  Albert.  We  shall  meet  again.”  — “Yes:  to- 
morrow, I think,”  she  answered  with  a smile.  To-morrow! 
how  I felt  the  word  ! Ah  ! she  little  thought,  when  she  drew 
her  hand  awaj'  from  mine.  They  walked  down  the  avenue. 
I stood  gazing  after  them  in  the  moonlight.  I thi’ew  myself 


54 


SORRO^\"S  OF  WERTHER. 


upon  the  ground,  and  wept : I then  sprang  up,  and  ran  out 
upon  the  terrace,  and  saw,  under  the  shade  of  the  linden- 
trees,  her  white  dress  disappearing  near  the  garden-gate.  I 
stretched  out  my  arms,  and  she  vanished. 


BOOK  II. 

Oct.  20. 

We  an’ived  here  yesterday.  The  ambassador  is  indis- 
posed, and  will  not  go  out  for  some  days.  If  he  were  less 
peevish  and  morose,  all  w’ould  be  well.  I see  but  too  plain!}' 
that  Heaven  has  destined  me  to  severe  trials  ; but  courage  ! 
a light  heart  may  bear  any  thing.  A light  heart ! I smile 
to  find  such  a word  proceeding  from  my  pen.  A little  more 
light-heartedness  would  render  me  the  happiest  being  under 
the  sun.  But  must  I despair  of  my  talents  and  faculties, 
whilst  others  of  far  inferior  abilities  parade  before  me  with 
the  utmost  self-satisfaction?  Gracious  Proridence,  to  whom 
I owe  all  my  powers,  wh}’  didst  thou  not  withhold  some  of 
those  blessings  I possess,  and  substitute  in  their  place  a feel- 
ing of  self-confidence  and  contentment  ? 

But  patience!  all  will  }'et  bi^  well;  for  I assure  you.  my 
dear  friend,  }'OU  were  right : since  I have  been  obliged  to 
associate  continually  with  other  peo[)le,  and  observe  what 
they  do,  and  how  they  employ  themselves,  I have  become 
far  better  satisfied  with  myself.  F or  we  are  so  constituted  liy”| 
nature,  that  we  are  ever  prone  to  compare  oui’selves  with  / 
others  ; aiid  our  happiness  or  misery  depends  very  much  on/ 
the  objects  and  persons  around  us.  On  this  account,  noth-f 
ing  is -anore  danVprrmg  Hmn  gnlitnde  : Ibcre  ouMmaHnation 
alway^-digposed  to  rise,  taking, a Jiejj^flighF-on^^  of 

~Tau.cv.  pictures  to  us~ a chjiuia9£Jae4nff&-eFat^^  -^va^eiTthe/ 
most  inferior.  All  things  appear  greater  than  the}'  really 
are,  and  all  seem  superior  to  us.  This  operation  of  the 
mind  is  quite  natural : we  so  continually  feel  our  own  imper- 
fections, and  fancy  we  perceive  in  others  the  qualities  we  do 
not  possess,  attributing  to  them  also  aU  that  we  enjoy  our- 
selves, that  by  this  process  we  form  the  idea  of  a perfect, 
happy  man,  — a man^  however,  who  only  exists  in  our  own 
imagination. 

But  when,  in  spite  of  weakness  and  disappointments-  we 


SORROWS  OF  AVERTHER. 


65 


set  to  work  in  earnest,  and  persevere  steadily,  we  often  find, 
that,  though  obliged  continually  to  tack,  Ave  make  more  way 
than  others  who  have  the  assistance  of  wind  and  tide ; and, 
in  truth,  there  can  be  no  greater  satisfaction  than  to  keep 
pace  with  others  or  outstrip  them  in  the  race. 


Nov.  26. 

I begin  to  find  my  situation  here  more  tolerable,  consider- 
ing all  circumstances.  I find  a great  advantage  in  being 
much  occupied  ; aud  the  number  of  persons  I meet,  and  their 
different  pursuits,  create  a varied  entertainment  for  me.  I 

have  formed  the  acquaintance  of  the  Count  C , and 

I esteem  him  more  and  more  every  day.  He  is  a man  of 
strong  uuderstauding  aud  great  discernment ; but,  though  he 
sees  farther  than  other  people,  he  is  not  on  that  account  cold 
in  his  mauner,  but  capal)le  of  inspiring  aud  returning  the 
warmest  affection.  He  appeared  interested  in  me  on  one 
occasion,  when  I had  to  foausact  some  business  with  him. 
He  perceh’cd,  at  the  first  word,  that  we  understood  each 
other,  aud  that  he  could  converse  with  me  in  a different  tone 
from  what  he  used  Avith  others.  I cannot  sufficiently  esteem 
his  frank  and  open  kindness  to  me.  It  is  the  greatest  and 
most  genuine  of  pleasm'es  to  obser\^e  a great  mind  in  sym- 
pathy with  om’  own. 


Dec.  24. 

As  I anticipated,  the  ambassador  occasions  me  infinite 
anno^’auce.  He  is  the  most  punctilious  blockhead  under 
hcaA'eu.  He  does  eveiy  thing  step  by  step,  Avith  the  trilling 
minuteness  of  an  old  woman ; and  he  is  a man  Avhom  it  is 
impossible  to  please,  because  he  is  never  pleased  with  him- 
self. I like  to  do  business  regularl}'  and  cheerfull}",  and, 
when  it  is  finished,  to  leaA'e  it.  But  he  constantly  returns 
my  papers  to  me,  saying,  “ They  will  do,”  but  recommending 
me  to  look  over  them  again,  as  “one  may  always  improA'e 
by  using  a better  word  or  a more  appropriate  particle.”  I 
then  lose  all  patience,  and  wish  myself  at  the  Devil’s.  Not 
a conjunction,  not  an  adA^erb,  must  be  omitted : he  has  a 
deadly  antipathy  to  all  those  transpositions  of  which  I am  so 
fond ; and,  if  the  music  of  our  periods  is  not  tuned  to  the 
established  official  key,  he  cannot  comprehend  our  meaning. 
It  is  deplorable  to  be  connected  Avith  such  a felloAv. 

My  acquaintance  with  the  Count  C is  the  oulj"  com- 

pensation for  such  an  evR.  He  told  me  frankly,  the  other 


56 


SOKROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


day,  that  he  was  much  displeased  with  the  difficulties  and 
' delays  of  the  ambassador ; that  people  like  him  are  obsta- 
,*|cles,  both  to  themselves  and  to  others.  ‘‘But,”  added  he, 

; “one  must  submit,  like  a traveller  who  has  to  ascend  a 
•;  mountain  : if  the  mountain  was  not  there,  the  road  would 
f be  both  shorter  and  pleasanter ; but  there  it  is,  and  he  must 
get  over  it.” 

The  old  man  perceives  the  count’s  partiality  for  n:|e : this 
annoys  him,  and  he  seizes  every  opportunity  to  depreciate 
the  count  in  my  hearing.  I naturally  defend  him,  and  that 
only  makes  matters  worse.  Yesterday  he  made  me  indig- 
nant, for  he  also  alluded  to  me.  “The  count,”  he  said, 
“ is  a man  of  the  world,  and  a good  man  of  business:  his 
style  is  good,  and  he  writes  with  facility ; but,  like  other 
geniuses,  he  has  no  solid  learning.”  He  looked  at  me  with 
an  expression  that  seemed  to  ask  if  I felt  the  blow.  But  it 
did  not  produce  the  desired  effect:  I despise  a man  who  can 
think  and  act  in  such  a manner.  However.  I made  a stand, 
and  answered  with  not  a little  warmth.  The  count,  I said, 
was  a man  entitled  to  respect,  alike  for  his  character  and  liis 
acquirements.  I had  never  met  a person  whose  mind  was 
stored  with  more  useful  and  extensive  knowledge,  — who  had, 
in  fact,  mastered  such  an  infinite  variet}'  of  subjects,  aud 
who  yet  retained  all  his  activity  for  the  details  of  ordinary 
business.  This  was  altogether  beyond  his  comprehension  ; 
and  I took  my  leave,  lest  my  anger  should  be  too  higiily 
excited  by  some  new  absurdity  of  his. 

And  you  are  to  blame  for  all  this,  you  who  persuaded  me 
to  bend  my  neck  to  this  yoke  by  preaching  a life  of  activity 
to  me.  If  the  man  who  plants  vegetables,  and  carries  his 
corn  to  town  on  market-days,  is  not  more  usefully  employed 
than  I am,  then  let  me  work  ten  years  longer  at  the  galleys 
to  which  I am  now  chained. 

Oh  the  brilliant  wretchedness,  the  weariness,  that  one  is 
doomed  to  witness  among  the  silly  people  whom  we  meet  in 
society  here ! The  ambition  of  rank ! How  they  watch, 
how  they  toil,  to  gain  precedence ! "What  poor  and  con- 
temptible passions  are  displayed  in  their  utter  nakedness  I 
Y'e  have  a woman  here,  for  example,  who  never  ceases  to 
entertain  the  company  with  accounts  of  her  family  and  her 
estates.  Any  stranger  would  consider  her  a silly  bemg. 
whose  head  wa_s  turned  by  her  pretensions  to  rank  and 
property  ; but  she  is  in  reality  even  more  ridiculous.  — the 
doAighter  of  a mere  magistrate’s  clerk  from  this  neighlmr- 


SOREOWS  OF  WEETHER. 


67 


hood.  I cannot  understand  ho-w  human  beings  can  so  debase 
themselves. 

Every  day  I observe  more  and  more  the  folly  of  judging 
of  '■others'  by  ourselves ; and  I have  so  much  trouble  with 
myself,  and  my  own  heart  is  in  such  constant  agitation,  that 
I am  well  content  to  let  others  pursue  their  own  course,  if 
the}'  only  allow  me  the  same  privilege. 

What  provokes  me  most  is  the  unhappy  extent  to  which 
distinctions  of  rank  are  carried.  I know  perfectly  well  how 
necessary  are  inequalities  of  condition,  and  I am  sensible 
of  the  advantages  I myself  derive  therefrom ; but  I would 
not  have  these  institutions  prove  a barrier  to  the  small 
chance  of  happiness  which  I may  enjoy  on  this  earth. 

I have  lately  become  acquainted  with  a Miss  B , a 

very  agreeable  girl,  who  has  retained  her  natural  manners  in 
the  midst  of  artificial  life.  Our  first  conversation  pleased  us 
both  equally  ; and,  at  taking  leave,  I requested  permission 
to  visit  her.  She  consented  in  so  obliging  a manner,  that  I 
waited  with  impatience  for  the  arrival  of  the  happy  moment. 
She  is  not  a native  of  this  place,  but  resides  here  with  her 
aunt.  The  countenance  of  the  old  lady  is  not  prepossessing. 
I paid  her  much  attention,  addressing  the  greater  part  of  my 
conversation  to  her  ; and,  in  less  than  half  an  hour,  I discov- 
ered what  her  niece  subsequently  acknowledged  to  me,  that 
her  aged  aunt,  having  but  a small  fortune,  and  a still  smaller 
share  of  understanding,  enjoys  no  satisfaction  except  in  the 
pedigree  of  her  ancestors,  no  protection  save  in  her  noble 
birth,  and  no  enjoyment  but  iu  looking  from  her  castle  over 
the  heads  of  the  humble  citizens.  She  was,  no  doubt,  hand- 
some iu  her  youth,  and  iu  her  early  years  probably  trifled 
away  her  time  in  rendering  many  a poor  youth  the  sport  of 
her  caprice  : iu  her  riper  years  she  has  submitted  to  the  yoke 
of  a veteran  officer,  who,  iu  return  for  her  person  and  her 
small  independence,  has  spent  with  her  what  we  may  desig- 
nate her  age  of  brass,  tie  is  dead  ; and  she  is  now  a widow, 
and  deserted.  She  spends  her  iron  age  alone,  and  would  not 
be  approached,  except  for  the  loveliness  of  her  niece. 


Jan.  8,  1772. 

What  beings  are  men,  whose  whole  thoughts  are  occupied 
with  form  and  ceremony,  who  for  years  together  devote  their 
mental  and  physical  exertions  to  the  task  of  advancing  them- 
selves but  one  step,  and  endeavoring  to  occupy  a higher 
place  at  the  table.  Not  that  such  persons  would  otherwise 


58 


SOEROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


want  employment : on  the  conti’aiy,  they  give  themselves 
much  trouble  by  neglecting  important  business  for  such 
petty  trifles.  Last  week  a question  of  precedence  arose  at 
a sledgiug-party,  and  all  our  amusement  was  spoiled. 

The  silly  creatures  cannot  see  that  it  is  not  place  which 
constitutes  real  greatness,  since  the  man  who  occuj)ies  the 
first  place  but  seldom  plays  the  principal  part.  How  many 
kings  are  governed  by  their  ministers  — how  man}’  ministers 
by  their  secretaries  ? Who,  in  such  cases,  is  reall}’  the  chief  ? 
He,  as  it  seems  to  me,  who  can  see  through  the  others,  and 
possesses  strength  or  skill  enough  to  make  their  power  or 
passions  subservient  to  the  execution  of  his  own  designs. 

Jax.  20. 

I must  write  to  you  from  this  place,  my  dear  Charlotte, 
from  a small  room  in  a countr}’  inn,  where  I have  taken 
shelter  from  a severe  storm.  During  my  whole  residence  in 

that  wretched  place  D , where  I lived  amongst  strangers, 

— strangers,  indeed,  to  this  heart,  — I never  at  any  time  felt 
the  smallest  inclination  to  correspond  with  you  ; but  in  this 
cottage,  in  this  retirement,  in  this  solitude,  with  the  snow 
and  hail  beating  against  my  lattice-pane,  you  are  my  first 
thought.  The  instant  I entered,  your  figure  rose  up  before 
me,  and  the  remembrance ! O my  Charlotte,  the  sacred, 
tender  remembrance  ! Gracious  Heaven  ! restore  to  me  the 
happy  moment  of  our  first  acquaintance. 

Could  }’ou  but  see  me,  my  dear  Charlotte,  in  the  whirl  of 
dissipation,  — how  my  senses  are  dried  up,  but  my  heart  is  at 
no  time  full.  I enjoy  no  single  moment  of  happiness  : all  is 
vain  — nothiug  touches  me.  I stand,  as  it  were,  before  the 
raree-show : I see  the  little  puppets  move,  and  I ask  whether 
it  is  not  an  optical  illusion.  I am  amused  with  these  puppets, 
or  rather,  I am  mj’self  one  of  them  : but.  when  I soraeiimes 
grasp  my  neighbor’s  hand,  I feel  that  it  is  not  natural ; and 
I withdraw  mine  with  a shudder.  In  the  evening  I say  I 
will  enjoy  the  next  morning’s  sunrise,  and  yet  I remain  in 
bed  : in  the  day  I promise  to  ramble  by  moonlight ; and  I, 
nevertheless,  remain  at  home.  I know  not  why  I rise,  nor 
why  I go  to  sleep. 

The  leaven  which  animated  my  existence  is  gone : the 
charm  which  cheered  me  in  the  gloom  of  night,  and  aroused 
me  from  nw  morning  slumbers,  is  forever  fled. 

I have  found  but  one  being  here  to  interest  me.  a Miss 
B . She  resembles  you,  my  dear  Charlotte,  if  any  one 


SORROWS  OF  WERTIIER. 


69 


can  possibly  resemble  you.  “ Ah  ! ” you  will  say,  “ he  has 
learned  how  to  pay  fine  compliments.”  And  this  is  partly 
true.  I have  been  very  agreeable  lately,  as  it  was  not  in  my 
power  to  be  otherwise.  I have,  moreover,  a deal  of  wit : and 
the  ladies  say  that  no  one  understands  flattery  better,  or 
falsehoods  you  will  add ; since  the  one  accomplishment  inva- 
riably accompanies  the  other.  But  I must  tell  you  of  Miss 

B . She  has  abundance  of  soul,  which  flashes  from  her 

deep  blue  eyes.  Her  rank  is  a torment  to  her,  and  satisfies 
no  one  desire  of  her  heart.  She  would  gladly  retire  from  this 
whirl  of  fashion,  and  we  often  picture  to  ourselves  a life  of 
undisturbed  happiness  in  distant  scenes  of  rural  retirement ; 
and  then  we  speak  of  j'ou,  my  dear  Charlotte  ; for  she  knows 
you,  and  renders  homage  to  your  merits  ; but  her  homage  is 
not  exacted,  but  voluntary,  — she  loves  you,  and  delights  to 
hear  you  made  the  subject  of  conversation. 

Oh  that  I were  sitting  at  your  feet  in  your  favorite  little 
room,  with  the  dear  children  playing  around  us  ! If  they 
became  troublesome  to  you,  I would  tell  them  some  appaliiug 
goblin  story;  and  they  would  crowd  round  me  with  silent 'j 
attention.  The  sun  is  setting  in  glory  ; his  last  rays  are  ' 
shining  on  the  snow,  which  covers  the  face  of  the  country : 
the  storm  is  over,  and  I must  return  to  my  dungeon.  Adieu ! 
— Is  Albert  with  you?  and  what  is  he  to  you ? God  for- 
give the  question. 

Feb.  8. 

For  a week  past  we  have  had  the  most  wretched  weather : / 
but  this  to  me  is  a blessing ; for,  during  my  residence  here^  / 
not  a single  fine  day  has  beamed  from  the  heavens,  but  has 
been  lost  to  me  by  the  intrusion  of  somebody.  During  the 
severit}^  of  rain,  sleet,  frost,  and  storm,  I congratulate  my- 
self that  it  cannot  be  worse  in  doors  than  abroad,  nor  worse 
abroad  than  it  is  within  doors  ; and  so  I become  reconciled. 
When  the  sun  rises  bright  in  the  morning,  and  promises  a 
glorious  day,  I never  omit  to  exclaim,  There,  now,  they 
have  another  blessing  from  Heaven,  which  they  will  be  sure  / 
to  destroy  : they  spoil  every  thing,  — health,  fame,  happiness, 
amusement ; and  they  do  this  generally  through  folly,  igno- 
rance, or  imbecilit}',  and  always,  according  to  their  own  ac- 
count, with  the  best  intentions!  ” I could  often  beseech 
them,  on  my  bended  knees,  to  be  less  resolved  upon  their 
own  destruction. 


60 

1.' 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


Feb.  17. 

I fear  that  my  ambassador  and  I shall  not  continue  much 
longer  together.  He  is  really  growing  past  endurance.  He 
transacts  his  business  in  so  ridiculous  a manner,  that  I am 
often  compelled  to  contradict  him,  and  do  things  my  own 
way  ; and  then,  of  course,  he  thinks  them  very  ill  done.  He 
complained  of  me  lately  on  this  account  at  court ; and  the 
minister  gave  me  a reprimand,  — a gentle  one  it  is  true,  but 
still  a reprimand.  In  consequence  of  this,  I was  about  to 
tender  my  resignation,  when  I received  a letter,  to  which  I 
submitted  with  great  respect,  on  account  of  the  high,  noble, 
and  generous  spirit  which  dictated  it.  He  endeavored  to 
soothe  my  excessive  sensibility,  paid  a tribute  to  my  extreme 
ideas  of  duty,  of  good  example,  and  of  perseverance  in 
business,  as  the  fruit  of  my  youthful  ardor,  — an  impulse 
which  he  did  not  seek  to  destroy,  but  only  to  moderate,  that 
it  might  have  proper  play  and  be  productive  of  good.  .So 
now  I am  at  rest  for  another  week,  and  no  longer  at  variance 
with  myself.  Content  and  peace  of  mind  are  valuable  things  : 
I couici  wish,  my  dear  friend,  that  these  precious  jewels  were 
less  transitory. 

Feb.  20. 

God  bless  you,  my  dear  friends,  and  may  he  grant  you 
that  happiness  which  he  denies  to  me  ! 

I thank  you,  Albert,  for  having  deceived  me.  I waited  for 
the  news  that  your  wedding-day  was  fixed  ; and  I intended 
on  that  day,  with  solemnity,  to  take  down  Charlotte’s  profile 
from  the  wall,  and  to  bury  it  with  some  other  papers  I pos- 
sess. You  are  now  united,  and  her  picture  still  remains 
here.  Well,  let  it  remain!  Why  should  it  not?  I know 
that  I am  still  one  of  your  society,  that  I still  occupy  a place 
uninjured  in  Charlotte’s  heart,  that  I hold  the  second  place 
therein  ; and  I intend  to  keep  it.  Oh,  I should  become  mad 
if  she  could  forget ! — Albert,  that  thought  is  hell ! Fare- 
well, Albert  — farewell,  angel  of  heaven  — farewell,  Char- 
lotte ! 


March  15. 

I have  just  had  a sad  adventure,  which  will  drive  me  away 
from  here.  I lose  all  patience  ! — Death  ! — It  is  not  to 
be  remedied  ; and  you  alone  are  to  blame,  for  you  urged  and 
impelled  me  to  fill  a post  for  which  I was  by  no  means  suited. 
I have  now  reason  to  be  satisfied,  and  so  have  you ! But, 


SOPvE-OAVS  OF  WEKTHER. 


Cl 


that  you  may  not  again  attribute  this  fatality  to  my  impetu- 
ous temper,  I send  you,  my  dear  sir,  a plain  and  simple 
narration  of  the  affair,  as  a mere  chronicler  of  facts  would 
describe  it. 

The  Count  of  O likes  and  distinguishes  me.  It  is 

well  known,  and  I have  mentioned  this  to  you  a hundred 
times.  Yesterday  I diued  with  him.  It  is  the  day  on  which 
the  nobility  are  accustomed  to  assemble  at  his  house  in  the 
eveuiug.  I never  once  thought  of  the  assembly,  nor  that  we 
subalterns  did  not  belong  to  such  society.  Well,  I dined 
with  the  count ; and,  after  dinner,  we  adjourned  to  the  large 
hall.  We  walked  up  and  down  together:  and  I conversed 

with  him,  and  with  Col.  B , who  joined  us  ; and  in  this 

manner  the  hour  for  the  assembly  approached.  God  knows, 
I was  thinking  of  nothing,  when  who  should  enter  but  the 

honorable  Lady  S , accompanied  by  her  noble  husband 

and  their  silly,  schemiug  daughter,  with  her  small  v^'aist  and 
flat  neck  ; and,  with  disdainful  looks  and  a haughty  air,  they 
passed  me  by.  As  I heartily  detest  the  whole  race,  I deter- 
mined upon  going  away  ; and  only  waited  till  the  count  had 
disengaged  himself  from  their  impertinent  prattle,  to  take 

leave,  when  the  agreeable  Miss  B came  in.  As  I never 

meet  her  without  experiencing  a heartfelt  pleasure,  I staid 
and  talked  to  her,  leaning  over  the  back  of  her  chair,  and 
did  not  perceive,  till  after  some  time,  that  she  seemed  a little 
confused,  and  ceased  to  answer  me  with  her  usual  ease  of 
manner.  I was  struck  witli  it.  “ Heavens  ! ” I said  to  my- 
self, “ can  she,  too,  be  like  the  rest?  ” I felt  annoyed,  and 
was  about  to  withdraw  ; but  I remained,  notwithstanding, 
forming  excuses  for  her  conduct,  fancying  she  did  not  mean 
it,  and  still  hoping  to  receive  some  friendly  recognition. 
The  rest  of  the  company  now  arrived.  There  was  the  Baron 

F , in  an  entire  suit  that  dated  from  the  coronation  of 

Francis  I.  ; the  Chancellor  N , with  his  deaf  wife  ; the 

shabbily-dressed  I , whose  old-fasliioned  coat  bore  evi- 

dence of  modern  repairs : this  crowned  the  whole.  I con- 
versed with  some  of  my  acquaintances,  but  they  answered  me 

laconically.  I was  engaged  in  observing  Miss  B , and 

did  not  notice  that  the  women  were  whispering  at  the  end 
of  the  room,  that  the  murmur  extended  by  degrees  to  the 

men,  that  Madame  S addressed  the  count  with  much 

warmth  (this  was  all  related  to  me  subsequently  by  Miss 

B ) ; till  at  length  the  count  came  up  to  me,  and  took 

me  to  the  window.  “You  know  our  ridiculous  customs,” 


62 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


he  said.  “I  perceive  the  company  is  rather  displeased  at 
3"Our  being  here.  I would  not  on  any  account  ” — “I  beg 
your  excellency’s  pardon  ! ” I exclaimed.  “ I ought  to  have 
thought  of  this  before,  but  I know  you  will  forgive  this  little 
inattention.  I was  going,”  I added,  “some  time  ago,  but 
my  evil  genius  detained  me.”  And  I smiled  and  bowed,  to 
take  my  leave.  He  shook  me  by  the  hand,  in  a manner 
which  expressed  eveiy  thing.  I hastened  at  once  from  the 
illustrious  assembly,  sprang  into  a carriage,  and  drove  to 

M . I contemplated  the  setting  sun  from  the  top  of  the 

hill,  and  read  that  beautiful  passage  in  Homer,  where  Ulysses 
is  entertained  by  the  hospitable  herdsmen.  This  was  indeed 
delightful. 

I returned  home  to  supper  in  the  evening.  But  few  per- 
sons were  assembled  in  the  room.  They  had  turacd  up  a 
corner  of  the  tablecloth,  and  were  playing  at  dice.  The 

good-natured  A came  in.  He  laid  down  his  hat  when 

he  saw  me,  approached  me,  and  said  in  a low  tone,  “You 
ha,ve  met  Avith  a disagreeable  adventure.”  — "I!”  I ex- 
claimed. “The  count  obliged  you  to  withdraw  from  the 
assembly!”  — “Deuce  take  the  assembh' ! ” said  I.  ‘-I 
was  very  glad  to  be  gone.”  — “I  am  delighted,”  he  added, 
“ that  you  take  it  so  lightl3\  I am  only  sorr:  that  it  is 
already  so  much  spoken  of.”  The  circumstance  then  began 
to  pain  me.  I fancied  that  eveiy  one  who  sat  down,  and 
even  looked  at  me,  ivas  thinking  of  this  incident ; and  my 
heart  became  embittered. 

And  now  I could  plunge  a dagger  into  m}'  bosom,  ivhcn  I 
hear  myself  everywhere  pitied,  and  observe  the  triumph  of 
my  enemies,  who  say  that  this  is  always  the  case  with  vain 
liersons,  whose  heads  are  turned  with  conceit,  Avho  affect  to 
despise  forms  and  such  petty,  idle  nonsense. 

bay  what  you  ivill  of  fortitude,  but  show  me  the  man  who 
can  patiently  euduue  the  laughter  of  fools,  when  the_v  have 
obtained  an  advantage  over  him.  ’Tis  only  when  their  non- 
sense is  vathout  foundation  that  one  can  suffer  it  without 
complaint. 


March  16. 

Every  thing  conspires  against  me.  I met  Miss  B 

walking  to-day.  I could  not  help  joining  her  ; and.  when  we 
were  at  a little  distance  from  her  companions.  I expressed 
nw  sense  of  her  altered  manner  towards  me.  “ O Y'erther  I ” 
she  said,  in  a tone  of  emotion,  “ j’ou,  who  Icnow  my  heart, 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


63 


how  could  you  so  ill  interpret  ray  distress  ? What  did  1 not 
suffer  for  you,  from  the  moment  you  entered  the  room  ! I 
foresaw  it  all,  — a hundred  times  was  I on  the  point  of  men- 
tioning it  to  you.  I knew  that  the  S s and  T s,  w'ith 

their  husbands,  would  quit  the  room,  rather  than  remain  in 
your  company.  I knew  that  the  count  would  not  break  with 
them:  and  now  so  much  is  said  about  it.”  — “How!”  I 
exclaimed,  and  endeavored  to  conceal  my  emotion  ; for  all 
that  Adelin  had  mentioned  to  me  yesterday  recurred  to  me 
painfully  at  that  moment.  “Oh,  how  much  it  has  already 
cost  me  I ” said  this  amiable  girl,  while  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  I could  scarcely  contain  myself,  and  w^as  ready  to 
throw  myself  at  her  feet.  “Explain  yourself!”  I cried. 
Tears  flowed  down  her  cheeks.  I became  quite  frantic.  She 
wiped  them  away,  without  attempting  to  conceal  them. 
“You  know  my  aunt,”  she  continued;  “she  was  present: 
and  in  what  light  does  she  consider  the  affair  ! Last  night, 
and  this  morning,  Wei’ther,  I was  compelled  to  listen  to  a 
lecture  upon  my  acquaintance  with  you.  I have  been  obliged 
to  hear  you  condemned  and  depreciated  ; and  I could  not  — 

I dared  not  — say  much  in  your  defence.” 

Every  word  she  uttered  was  a dagger  to  my  heart.  She 
did  not  feel  what  a mercj^  it  would  have  been  to  conceal 
every  thing  from  me.  She  told  me,  in  addition,  all  the  im- 
pertinence that  would  be  further  circulated,  and  how  the 
malicious  would  triumph ; how  the}’  would  rejoice  over  the 
punishment  of  my  pride,  OAmr  my  humiliation  for  that  want 
of  esteem  for  others  w’ith  which  I had  often  been  reproached. 
To  hear  all  this,  Wilhelm,  uttered  by  her  in  a voice  of  the 
most  sincere  sympathy,  awakened  all  my  passions  ; and  I 
am  still  in  a state  of  extreme  excitement.  I wish  I could 
find  a man  to  jeer  me  about  this  event.  I Avould  sacrifice 
him  to  my  resentment.  The  sight  of  his  blood  might  pos- 
sibly be  a relief  to  my  fury.  A hundred  times  have  I seized 
a dagger,  to  give  ease  to  this  oppressed  heart.  Natura,lists 
tell  of  a noble  race  of  horses  that  instinctively  open  a vein 
Avith  their  teeth,  when  heated  and  exhausted  b}'  a long 
course,  in  order  to  breathe  more  freely.  I am  often  tempted  ' 
to  open  a vein,  to  procure  for  myself  everlasting  liberty. 

March  24. 

I have  tendered  my  resignation  to  the  court.  I hope  it 
will  be  accepted,  and  you  will  forgive  me  for  not  haAuug 
previously  consulted  you.  It  is  necessai’y  I should  leave  this 


64 


SORKOWS  OF  AVERTHER. 


place.  I know  all  you  will  urge  me  to  stay,  and  therefore  — 

I beg  you  will  soften  this  news  to  my  mother.  I am  unable 
to  do  any  thing  for  myself : how,  then,  should  I be  compe- 
tent to  assist  others?  It  will  afflict  her  that  I should  have 
interrupted  that  career  which  would  have  made  me  first  a 
privy  councillor,  and  then  minister,  and  that  I should  look 
behind  me,  in  place  of  advancing.  Argue  as  you  will,  com- 
bine all  the  reasons  which  should  have  induced  me  to  remain, 

— I am  going  : that  is  sufficient.  But,  that  you  may  not  be 
ignorant  of  my  destination,  I may  mention  that  the  Prince 

of is  here.  He  is  much  pleased  with  mj*  company ; 

and,  having  heard  of  my  intention  to  resign,  he  has  invited  . 
me  to  his  countiy  house,  to  pass  the  spring  months  with  him. 

I shall  be  left  completely  my  own  master  ; and,  as  we  agree 
on  all  subjects  but  one,  I shall  try  my  fortune,  and  accom- 
pany him. 

April  19. 

Thanks  for  both  your  letters.  I delayed  my  reply,  and 
withheld  this  letter,  till  I should  obtain  an  answer  from  the 
court.  I feared  m3*  mother  might  applv  to  the  minister  to 
defeat  1113^  purpose.  But  my  request  is  granted,  1113*  re- 
signation is  accepted.  I shall  not  recount  with  what  reluc- 
tance it  w*as  accorded,  nor  relate  w*hat  the  minister  has 
written : 3*011  w'ould  only  renew*  3*0111*  lamentations.  The  ! 
Crow*n  Prince  has  sent  me  a present  of  five  and  twent3*  ducats  ; 
and,  indeed,  such  goodness  has  affected  me  to  tears.  For 
this  reason  I shall  not  require  from  m3*  mother  the  money 
for  which  I lately  applied. 


Mat  5. 

I leave  this  place  to-morrow ; and,  as  my  native  place  is 
only  six  miles  from  the  high  road,  I intend  to  visit  it  once 
more,  and  recall  the  happy  dreams  of  my  childhood.  I 
shall  enter  at  the  same  gate  through  which  I came  with  my 
mother,  w*hen,  after  my  father’s  death,  she  left  that  delight- 
ful retreat  to  immure  herself  in  3*0111*  melanchol3*  town. 
Adieu,  my  dear  friend : you  shall  hear  of  my  future  career. 


Mat  9. 

I have  paid  m3*  visit  to  my  native  place  with  all  the  devo- 
!tion  of  a pilgrim,  and  have  experienced  many  unexpected 
emotions.  Near  the  great  elm-tree,  which  is  a quai*tei*  of  a 


I 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


65 


league  from  the  vih’age,  I got  out  of  the  carriage,  and  sent 
it  on  before,  that  alone,  and  on  foot,  I might  enjoy  vividly 
and  heartily  aU  the  pleasure  of  my  recollections.  I stood 
there  under  that  same  elm  which  was  formerly  the  term 
and  object  of  my  walks.  How*  things  have  since  changed  ! 
Then,  in  happy  ignorance,  I sighed  for  a world  I did  not 
know,  where  I hoped  to  find  every  pleasure  and  enjoyment 
which  my  heai’t  could  desire  ; and  now,  on  my  return  from 
that  wide  world,  O my  friend,  how  many  disappointed  hopes 
and  unsuccessful  plans  have  I brought  back  ! 

A't  I contemplated  the  mguntains  which  lay  stretched  out 
before  me,  I thought  how  often  they  had  been  the  object  of 
my  dearest  desires.  Here  used  I to  sit  for  hours  together 
with  my  eyes  bent  upon  them,  ardently  longing  to  wander  in 
tlie  shade  of  those  woods,  to  lose  myself  in  those  valleys, 
which  Torm  so” clelighttur  an  object  in  the  distance.  With 
T\hat  reluctance  did  I leave  this  charming  spot,  when  my 
hour  of  recreation  wvas  over,  and  my  leave  of  absence 
expired  ! I drew  near  to  the  village  : all  the  w*ell-known  old 
summer-houses  and  gardens  were  recognized  again ; I dis- 
liked the  new  ones,  and  all  other  alterations  which  had  taken 
place.  I entered  the  village,  and  all  my  former  feelings 
returned.  I cannot,  my  dear  friend,  enter  into  details, 
charming  as  were  my  sensations  : thej'  would  be  dull  in  the 
narration.  I had  intended  to  lodge  in  the  market-place, 
near  our  old  house.  As  soon  as  I entered,  I perceived  that 
the  schoolroom,  where  our  childhood  had  been  taught  by 
that  good  old  woman,  was  converted  into  a shop.  I called 
to  mind  the  sorrow,  the  heaviness,  the  tears,  and  oppression 
cf  heart,  which  I experienced  in  that  confinement.  Every 
step  produced  some  particular  impression.  A pilgrim  in  the 
Holy  Land  does  not  meet  so  many  spots  pregnant  with  ten- 
der recollections,  and  his  soul  is  hardh'  moved  with  greater 
devotion.  One  incident  w'ill  serve  for  illustration.  I fol- 
lowed the  course  of  a stream  to  a farm,  former!}"  a delight- 
ful walk  of  mine,  and  paused  at  the  spot,  where,  w'hen  boys, 
w'e  used  to  amuse  ourselves  making  clucks  and  drakes  upon 
the  water.  I recollected  so  well  how  I used  formerly  to 
Tfvatch  the  course  of  that  same  stream,  following  it  with 
inquiring  eagerness,  forming  romantic  ideas  of  the  countries 
it  was  to  pass  through ; but  my  imagination  was  soon 
exhausted ; while  the  water  continued  fiowiug  farther  and 
farther  on,  till  my  fancy  became  bewildered  by  the  contem- 
pfiation  of  an  invisible  distance.  Exactly  such,  my  dear 


66 


SORROWS  OF  WEE.THER. 


friend,  so  happy  and  so  confined,  were  ‘die  thoughts  of  our 
good  ancestors.  Their  feelings  and  theii-  poetry  were  fresh 
as  childhood.  And,  when  Ulysses  talks  of  the  immeasura- 
ble sea  and  boundless  earth,  his  epithets  are  true,  natural, 
deeply  felt,  and  mysterious.  Of  what  importance  is  it  that  I 
have  learned,  with  every  schoolboy,  that  the  worid  is  round? 
Man  needs  but  little  earth  for  enjoyment,  and  sti’.l  less  for 
his  final  repose. 

I am  at  present  with  the  prince  at  his  hunting-lodgt.  He 
is  a man  with  whom  one  can  live  happilJ^  He  is  honest  and 
unaffected.  There  are,  however,  some  strange  characters 
about  him,  whom  I cannot  at  all  understand.  They  do  not 
seem  vicious,  and  yet  they  do  not  carry  the  appearance  of 
thoroughly  honest  men.  Sometimes  I am  disposed  to  believe 
them  honest,  and  yet  I cannot  persuade  myself  to  confide  ia 
them.  It  grieves  me  to  hear  the  prince  occasionally  talk  of 
things  which  he  has  only  read  or  heard  of,  aud  always  wita 
the  same  view  in  wdiich  they  have  been  represented  by 
others. 

lie  values  my  understanding  and  talents  more  highly  than 
my  heart,  but  I am  proud  of  the  latter  only.  It  is  the  sole 
source  of  every  thing,  — of  our  strength,  happiness,  aud 
miseiy.  All  the  knowledge  I possess  every  one  else  can 
acquire,  but  my  heart  is  exclusivel}"  my  own. 

Mat  25. 

I have  had  a plan  in  my  head  of  which  I did  not  intend  tc> 
speak  to  you  until  it  was  accomplished ; now  that  it  ha« 
failed,  I may  as  well  mention  it.  I wished  to  enter  the, 
army,  aud  had  long  been  desirous  of  taking  the  step.  This, 
indeed,  was  the  chief  reason  for  my  coming  here  with  the, 
prince,  as  he  is  a general  in  the  service.  I communi- 

cated my  design  to  him  during  one  of  our  walks  together 
He  disapproved  of  it,  aud  it  would  have  been  actual  mad- 
ness not  to  have  listened  to  his  reasons. 

June  11. 

Say  what  jmu  will,  I can  remain  here  no  longer.  Why 
should  I remain  ? Time  hangs  heavy  upon  my  hands.  Thes 
prince  is  as  gracious  to  me  as  any  one  could  be,  aud  yet  1 
am  not  at  my  ease.  There  is,  indeed,  nothing  in  common 
between  us.  He  is  a man  of  understanding,  but  quite  of 
the  ordinary  kind.  His  conversation  affords  me  no  more 
.amusement  tlian  I should  derive  from  the  iiernsal  of  a well- 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


67 


written  book.  I shall  remain  here  a week  longer,  and  then 
start  again  on  my  travels.  drawings  are  the  best  things 

I have  done  since  I came  here.  The  prince  has  a taste  for 
the  arts,  and  would  improve  if  his  mind  were  not  fettered  by 
cold  rules  and  mere  technical  ideas.  I often  lose  patience, 
when,  with  a glowing  imagination,  I am  giving  expression 
to  art  and  nature,  he  interferes  with  learned  suggestions, 
and  uses  at  random  the  technical  phraseology  of  artists.- 


July  16. 

Once  more  I am  a wanderer,  a pilgrim,  thi’ough  the  w'orld. 
But  what  else  are  you  ! 


July  18. 

Whither  am  I going?  I will  tell  you  in  confidence.  I am 
obliged  to  continue  a fortnight  longer  here,  and  then  I think 

it  would  be  better  for  me  to  visit  the  mines  in . But 

I am  only  deluding  myself  thus.  The  fact  is,  I wish  to  be 
near  Charlotte  again,  — that  is  all.  I smile  at  the  sugges- 
tions of  my  heart,  and  obey  its  dictates. 


July  29. 

No,  no!  it  is  yet  well  — all  is  well!  I her  husband! 
O God,  who  gave  me  being,  if  thon  hadst  destined  this  hap- 
piness for  me,  my  whole  life  would  have  been  one  continual 
thanksgiving  ! But  I will  not  murmur  — forgive  these  tears, 
forgive  these  fruitless  wishes.  She  — my  wife!  Oh,  the 
very  thought  of  folding  that  dearest  of  Heaven’s  creatures 
in  my  arms  ! Dear  Wilhelm,  my  whole  frame  feels  con- 
vulsed when  I see  Albert  put  his  arms  round  her  slender 
waist ! 

And  shall  I avow  it?  Why  should  I not,  W^ilhelm?  She 
would  have  been  happier  with  me  than  with  him.  Albert  is 
not  the  man  to  satisfy  the  wishes  of  such  a heart.  He 
wants  a certain  sensibility  ; he  wants  — in  short,  their  heaiTs 
do  not  beat  in  unison.  How  often,  my  dear  friend,  in  read- 
ing a passage  from  some  interesting  book,  when  my  heart 
and  Charlotte’s  seemed  to  meet,  and  in  a hundred  other 
instances  when  our  sentiments  were  unfolded  by  the  story 
of  some  fictitious  character,  have  I felt  that  we  were  made 
for  each  other ! But,  dear  Wilhelm,  he  loves  her  with  his 
whole  soul ; and  what  does  not  such  a love  deserv'e? 

I have  been  interrunted  by  an  insufferable  visit.  I 


have 


68 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


dried  my  tears,  and  composed  my  thoughts.  Adieu,  my 
best  friend ! 


Aug.  4. 

I am  not  alone  unfortunate.  All  men  are  disappointed  in 
their  hopes,  and  deceived  in  their  expectations.  I have 
paid  a visit  to  my  good  old  woman  under  the  lime-trees. 
The  eldest  boy  ran  out  to  meet  me : his  exclamation  of  joy 
brought  out  his  mother,  but  she  had  a very  melancholy  look. 
Her  first  word  was,  “ Alas  ! dear  sir,  my  little  John  is  dead.” 
He  was  the  youngest  of  her  children.  I was  silent.  “And 
my  husband  has  returned  from  Switzerland  without  any 
money  ; and,  if  some  kind  people  had  not  assisted  him,  he 
must  have  begged  his  w'ay  home.  He  wms  taken  ill  with 
fever  on  his  journey.”  I could  answer  nothing,  but  made 
the  little  one  a present.  She  invited  me  to  take  some  fruit  : 
I complied,  and  left  the  place  with  a sorrowful  heart. 


Aug.  21. 

My  sensations  are  constantly  changing.  Sometimes  a 
happy  prospect  opens  before  me  ; but  alas ! it  is  only  for 
a moment : and  then,  when  I am  lost  in  reverie,  I cannot  help 
saying  to  myself,  “ If  Albert  were  to  die? — Yes,  she  would 
become  — and  I should  be” — and  so  I pursue  a chimei'a, 
till  it  leads  me  to  the  edge  of  a precipice  at  which  I shudder. 

When  I pass  through  the  same  gate,  and  walk  along  the 
same  road  which  first  couducted  me  to  Charlotte,  my  heart 
sinks  within  me  at  the  change  that  has  since  taken  place. 
All,  all,  is  altered ! I^o  sentiment,  no  pulsation  of  my  heart, 
is  the  same.  My  sensations  are  such  as  would  occur  to 
some  departed  prince  whose  spirit  should  return  to  visit  the 
superb  palace  which  he  had  built  in  happy  times,  adorned 
with  costly  magnificence,  and  left  to  a beloved  son.  but 
whose  gloi’3'  he  should  find  departed,  and  its  halls  deserted 
and  in  ruins. 

Sf.pt.  3. 

I sometimes  cannot  understand  how  she  can  love  another, 
how  she  dares  love  another,  when  I love  nothing  in  this  world 
so  completely,  so  devotedljn  as  I love  her,  when  I know  only 
her,  and  have  no  other  possession  than  her  in  the  world. 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


69 


Sept.  4. 

It  is  even  so ! As  nature  puts  on  her  autumn-tints,  it 
becom._es -autumn  with  me  and  around  me.  My  leaves  are 
sere  and  yellow,  and  the  neighboring  trees  are  divested  of 
their  foliage.  Do  you  remember  my  wilting  to  you  about  a 
peasant-boy  shortly  after  my  arrival  here?  I have  just  made 
inquiries  about  him  in  Walheim.  They  say  he  has  been  dis- 
missed from  his  service,  and  is  now  avoided  by  every  one. 
I met  him  yesterday  on  the  road,  going  to  a neighboring 
village.  I spoke  to  him,  and  he  told  me  his  story.  It  inter- 
ested me  exceedingly,  as  you  will  easily  understand  when  I 
repeat  it  to  you.  But  why  should  I trouble  you?  Why 
should  I not  reserve  all  my  sorrow  for  myself  ? Why  should 
I continue  to  give  you  occasion  to  pity  and  blame  me  ? But 
no  matter  : this  also  is  part  of  my  destiny. 

At  first  the  peasant-lad  answered  my  inquiries  with  a sort 
of  subdued  melancholy,  which  seemed  to  me  the  mark  of  a 
timid  disposition  ; but,  as  we  grew  to  understand  each  other,, 
he  spoke  with  less  reserve,  and  opeulj"  confessed  his  faults, 
and  lamented  his  misfortune.  I wish,  my  dear  friend,  I 
could  give  proper  expression  to  his  language.  He  told  me 
with  a sort  of  pleasural)le  recollection,  that,  after  my  depart- 
ure, his  passion  for  his  mistress  increased  daily,  until  at  last 
he  neither  knew  what  he  did  nor  w'hat  he  said,  nor  what  was 
to  become  of  him.  He  could  neither  eat  nor  drink  nor 
sleep:  he  felt  a sense  of  suffocation.;  he  disobeyed  all 
orders,  and  forgot  all  commands  involuntarily ; he  seemed 
as  if  pursued  by  an  evil  spirit,  till  one  day,  knowing  that  his 
mistress  had  gone  to  an  upper  chamber,  he  had  followed,  or, 
rather,  been  drawn  after  her.  As  she  proved  deaf  to  his 
entreaties,  he  had  recourse  to  violence.  He  know's  not  w'hat 
happened ; but  he  called  God  to  witness  that  his  intentions 
to  her  were  honorable,  and  that  he  desired  nothing  more 
sincerely  than  that  they  should  marry,  and  pass  their  lives 
together.  When  he  had  come  ■ to  this  point,  he  began  to 
hesitate,  as  if  there  was  something  which  he  had  not  courage 
to  utter,  till  at  length  he  acknowledged  with  some  confusion 
certain  little  confidences  she  had  encouraged,  and  liberties 
she  had  allowed.  He  broke  off  two  or  three  times  in  his 
narration,  and  assured  me  most  earnestly  that  he  had  no 
wish  to  make  her  bad,  as  he  termed  it,  for  he  loved  her  still 
as  sincerely  as  ever ; that  the  tale  had  never  before  escaped 
his  lips,  and  was  only  now  told  to  convince  me  that  he  was 
not  utterly  lost  and  abandoned.  And  here,  my  dear  friend, 


70 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


I must  commence  the  old  song  which  you  know  I utter  eter- 
nally. If  I could  only  represent  the  man  as  he  stood,  and 
stands  now  before  me,  — could  I only  give  his  true  expres- 
sions, you  would  feel  compelled  to  sympathize  in  his  fate. 
But  enough  : you,  who^vuow  my  misfortune  and  my  disposi- 
tion, can  easily  compreheud  the  attraction  which  draws  me 
towards  every  unfortunate  being,  but  particularly  towards 
him  whose  story  I have  recounted. 

On  pprusing  this  letter  a second  time,  I find  I have  omitted 
the  cc  usiou  of  my  tale  ; but  it  is  easily  supplied.  She 
became  ’eserved  towards  him,  at  the  instigation  of  her 
brother  vho  had  long  hated  him,  and  desired  his  expulsion 
from  the  house,  fearing  that  his  sister’s  second  marriage 
might  deprive  his  children  of  the  handsome  fortune  they 
expecte  1 from  her ; as  she  is  childless.  He  was  dismissed 
at  length  ; and  the  whole  affair  occasioned  so  much  scandal, 
that  the  mistress  dared  not  take  him  back,  even  if  she  had 
wished  it.  She  has  since  hired  another  servant,  with  whom, 
they  sa>^,  her  brother  is  equally  displeased,  and  whom  she  is 
likely  t ' many  ; but  my  informant  assures  me  that  he  him- 
self is  nniued  not  to  survive  such  a catastrophe. 

This  story  is  neither  exaggerated  nor  embellished : indeed, 

I have  weakened  and  impaired  it  in  the  narration,  by  the 
necessity  of  using  the  more  refined  expressions  of  society. 

This  love,  then,  this  constancy,  this  passion,  is  no  poetical 
fiction.  It  is  actual,  and  dwells  in  its  greatest  purity  amongst 
that  class  of  mankind  whom  we  term  rude,  uneducated.  We 
are  the  educated,  not  the  perverted ! But  read  this  story 
with  attention,  I implore  you.  I am  tranquil  to-day,  for 
I have  been  employed  upon  this  nan-atiou : you  see  by  my 
writing  that  I am  not  so  agitated  as  usual.  Bead  and 
re-read  this  tale,  Wilhelm  : it  is  the  history  of  your  friend  ! 
]\Iy  fortune  has  been  and  will  be  similar ; and  I am  neither 
half  so  brave  nor  half  so  determined  as  the  poor  wretch 
with  whom  I hesitate  to  compare  myself. 

Sept.  5. 

Charlotte  had  wiltten  a letter  to  her  husband  in  the  coun- 
try, where  he  was  detained  by  business.  It  commenced, 

“ My  dearest  love,  return  as  soon  as  possible  : I await  you 
with  a thousand  raptures.”  A friend  wlio  arrived,  brought 
word,  that,  for  certain  reasons,  he  could  not  return  imme- 
diately. Charlotte’s  letter  was  not  forwarded,  and  the  same 
evening  it  fell  into  mj'  hands.  I read  it,  and  smiled.  She  i 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


71 


asked  the  reason.  “What  a heavenly  treasure  is  imagina- 
tion ! ” I exclaimed ; “I  fancied  for  a moment  that  this  was 
written  to  me.”  She  paused,  and  seemed  displeased.  I was 
silent. 

Sept.  6. 

It  cost  me  much  to  part  with  the  blue  coat  which  I wore 
the  first  time  I danced  with  Charlotte.  But  I could  not 
possibly  wear  it  any  longer.  But  I have  ordered  a new  one, 
precisely  similar,  even  to  the  collar  and  sleeves,  as  well  as  a 
new  waistcoat  and  pantaloons. 

But  it  does  not  produce  the  same  effect  upon  me.  I know 
not  how  it  is,  but  I hope  in  time  I shall  like  it  better. 

Sept.  12. 

She  has  been  absent  for  some  days.  She  went  to  meet 
Albert.  To-day  I visited  her : she  rose  to  receive  me,  and 
I kissed  her  hand  most  tenderly. 

canary^ at  the  moment  flew  from  a mirror,  and  settled 
u^a-her-'Slioulder.  “ Here  is  a new  friend,”  she  observed, 
while  she  made  him  perch  upon  her  hand  : “ he  is  a present 
for  the  children.  What  a dear  he  is  ! Look  at  him  ! When 
I feed  him,  he  flutters  with  his  wings,  and  pecks  so  nicely. 
He  kisses  me,  too,  — only  look  ! ” 

She  held  the  bird  to  her  mouth  ; and  he  pressed  her  sweet 
lips  with  so  much  fervor,  that  he  seemed  to  feel  the  excess 
of  bliss  which  he  enjoyed. 

“He  shall  kiss  you  too,”  she  added;  and  then  she  held 
the  bird  towards  me.  His  little  beak  moved  from  her  mouth 
to  mine,  and  the  delightful  sensation  seemed  like  the  fore- 
runner of  the  sweetest  bliss. 

“ A kiss,”  I observed,  “ does  not  seem  to  satisfy  him  : he 
wishes  for  food,  and  seems  disappointed  by  these  unsatis- 
factory endearments . ’ ’ 

“But  he  eats  out  of  my  mouth,”  she  continued,  and 
extended  her  lips  to  him  containing  seed ; and  she  smiled 
with  all  the  charm  of  a being  who  has  allowed  an  innocent 
participation  of  her  love. 

1 turned  my  face  away.  She  should  not  act  thus.  She 
ought  not  to  excite  my  imagination  with  such  displays  of 
heavenly  innocence  and  happiness,  nor  awaken  my  heart 
from  its  slumbers,  in  which  it  dreams  of  the  worthlessness 
of  life!  And  why  not?  Because  she  knows  how  much  I 
love  her. 


72 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


Sept.  15. 

It  makes  me  wretched,  Wilhelm,  to  think  that  there  should 
be  men  incapable  of  appreciating  the  few  things  which  pos- 
sess a real  value  in  life.  You  remember  the  walnut-trees  at 

S , under  which  I used  to  sit  with  Charlotte,  during  mi' 

visits  to  the  worthy  old  vicar.  Those  glorious  ti-ees.  the 
very  sight  of  which  has  so  often  filled  my  heart  with  joy, 
how  they  adorned  and  refreshed  the  parsonage-iard,  with 
their  wide-extended  branches  ! and  how  pleasing  was  our 
remembrance  of  the  good  old  pastor,  by  whose  hands  they 
were  planted  so  many  years  ago  ! The  schoolmaster  has  fre- 
quently mentioned  his  name.  He  had  it  from  his  grand- 
father. He  must  have  been  a most  excellent  man  ; and, 
under  the  shade  of  thqg.e  .old  trees,  his  memoiy  was  ever 
; venerated  by  me.  The  schoolmaster  informed  us  yesterday, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  those  trees  had  been  felled.  Yes, 
cut  to  the  ground  ! I could,  in  my  wrath,  have  slain  the 
monster  who  struck  the  first  stroke.  And  I must  endure 
this  ! — I,  who,  if  I had  had  two  such  trees  in  my  own  court, 
and  one  had  died  from  old  age,  should  have  wept  with  real 
affliction.  But  there  is  some  comfort  left,  — such  a thiug  is 
sentiment, — the  whole  village  murmurs  at  the  misfortune; 
and  I hope  the  vicar’s  wife  will  soon  find,  by  the  cessation  of 
the  villagers’  presents,  how  much  she  has  wounded  the  feel- 
ings of  the  neighborhood.  It  was  she  who  did  it,  — the  wife 
of  the  present  incumbent  (our  good  old  man  is  dead) . — a tall, 
sickly  creature,  who  is  so  far  right  to  disregard  the  world, 
as  the  world  totally  disregards  her.  The  silly  being  affects 
to  be  learned,  pretends  to  examine  the  canonical  books, 
lends  her  aid  towards  the  new-fashioned  refonnation  of 
Christendom,  moral  and  critical,  and  shrugs  up  her  shoulders 
at  the  mention  of  Lavater’s  enthusiasm.  Her  health  is  de- 
stroyed, on  account  of  which  she  is  prevented  from  ha^^ng 
an}'  enjoyment  here  below.  Only  such  a creature  could  have 
cut  down  walnut-trees  ! I can  never  pardon  it.  Hear 
her  reasons.  The  falling  leaves  made  the  court  wet  and 
dirty  ; the  branches  obstructed  the  light ; boys  threw  stones 
at  the  nuts  when  they  were  ripe,  and  the  noise  affected  her 
nerves,  and  disturbed  her  profound  meditations,  when  she 
was  weighing  the  difficulties  of  Kennicot,  Semler.  and 
Miehaelis.  Finding  that  all  the  parish,  partieularh’  the  old 
people,  were  displeased,  I .asked  “why  they  allowed  it?” 
— “Ah,  sir!”  they  replied,  “when  the  steward  orders, 
what  can  we  poor  peasants  do?”  But  one  thing  has  hap- 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


73 


pened  well.  The  steward  and  the  vicar  (who,  for  once, 
thought  to  reap  some  advantage  from  the  caprices  of  his 
wife)  intended  to  divide  the  trees  between  them.  The 
revenue-office,  being  informed  of  it,  revived  an  old  claim  to 
the  ground  where  the  trees  had  stood,  and  sold  them  to  the 
best  bidder.  There  they  still  lie  on  the  ground.  If  I were 
the  soAmreign,  I should  know  how  to  deal  with  them  all,  — 
vicar,  steward,  and  revenue-office.  kSovereign,  did  I say? 
I should,  in  that  case,  care  little  about  the  trees  that  grew 
in  the  country. 


Oct.  10. 

Only  to  gaze  upon  her  dark  eyes  is  to  me  a source  of 
happiness  ! And  what  grieves  me,  is,  that  Albert  does  not 
seem  so  happy  as  he — hoped  to  be  — as  I should  have  been 
— if  — I am  no  friend  to  these  pauses,  but  here  I cannot 
express  it  otherwise ; and  probably  I am  explicit  enough. 


Oct.  13. 

Ossian  has  superseded  Homer  in  my  heart.  To  what  a 
world  does  the  illustrious  bard  carry  me  ! To  wander  over 
pathless  wilds,  surrounded  by  impetuous  whirlwinds,  where, 
by  the  feeble  light  of  the  moon,  we  see  the  spirits  of  our 
ancestors  ; to  hear  from  the  mountain-tops,  mid  the  roar  of 
torrents,  their  plaintive  sounds  issuing  from  deep  caverns, 
and  the  sorrowful  lamentations  of  a maiden  who  sighs  and 
expires  on  the  mossy  tomb  of  the  warrior  by  whom  she  was 
adored.  I meet  this  bard  with  silver  hair ; he  wanders  in 
the  valley ; he  seeks  the  footsteps  of  his  fathers,  and,  alas  ! 
he  finds  only  their  tombs.  Then,  contemplating  the  pale 
moon,  as  she  sinks  beneath  the  waves  of  the  rolling  sea,  the 
memory  of  bygone  days  strikes  the  mind  of  the  hero,  — 
days  when  approaching  danger  invigorated  the  brave,  and 
the  moon  shone  upon  his  bark  laden  with  spoils,  and  return- 
ing in  triumph.  When  I read  in  his  countenance  deep  sor- 
row, when  I see  his  dying  glory  sink  exhausted  into  the 
grave,  as  he  inhales  new  and  heart-thrilling  delight  from  his 
approaching  union  with  his  beloved,  and  he  casts  a look  on 
the  cold  earth  and  the  tall  grass  which  is  so  soon  to  cover 
him,  and  then  exclaims,  “ The  traveller  will  come,  — he  will 
come  who  has  seen  my  beauty,  and  he  will  ask,  ‘ Where  is 
the  bard,  — where  is  the  illustrious  son  of  Fingal?  ’ He  will 
walk  over  my  tomb,  and  will  seek  me  in  vain  ! ” Then,  O 


74 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


my  friend,  I could  instantly,  like  a true  and  noble  knight, 
draw  my  sword,  and  deliver  my  prince  from  the  long  and 
painful  languor  of  a living  death,  and  dismiss  my  own  soul 
to  follow  the  demigod  whom  my  hand  had  set  free  ! 


Oct.  19. 

Alas ! the  void  — the  fearful  void,  which  I feel  in  my 
bosom  ! Sometimes  I think,  if  I could  only  once  — but 
once,  press  her  to  my  heart,  this  di'eadful  void  would  be 
filled. 


Oct.  26. 

Yes,  I feel  certain,  Wilhelm,  and  every  day  I become 
more  certain,  that  the  existence  of  any  being  whatever  is  of 
very  little  consequence.  A friend  of  Charlotte’s  called  to 
see  her  just  now.  I withdrew  into  a neighboring  apartment, 
and  took  up  a book ; but,  finding  I could  not  read,  I sat 
down  to  write.  I heard  them  converse  in  an  undertone  : 
they  spoke  upon  indifferent  topics,  and  retailed  the  news  of 
the  town.  One  was  going  to  be  married  ; another  was  ill, 
very  ill,  — she  had  a dry  cough,  her  face  was  growing  thinner 

daily,  and  slie  had  occasional  fits.  ‘‘N is  veiy  unwell 

too,”  said  Charlotte.  “His  limbs  begin  to  swell  already,” 
answered  the  other ; and  my  lively  imagination  carried  me 
at  once  to  the  beds  of  the  infirm.  There  1 see  them  struggling 
against  death,  with  all  the  agonies  of  pain  and  horror ; and 
these  women,  Wilhelm,  talk  of  all  this  with  as  much  indif- 
ference as  one  would  mention  the  death  of  a stranger.  And 
when  I look  around  the  apartment  where  I now  am,  — when 
I see  Charlotte’s  apparel  lying  before  me,  and  Albert’s  writ- 
ings, and  all  those  articles  of  furniture  which  are  so  familiar 
to  me,  even  to  the  very  inkstand  which  I am  using.  — when 
I think  what  I am  to  this  family  — every  thing.  Tly  friends 
esteem  me  ; I often  contribute  to  their  happiness,  and  my 
heart  seems  as  if  it  could  not  beat  without  them  ; and  yet — 
if  I were  to  die,  if  I were  to  be  summoned  from  the  midst 
of  this  circle,  would  they  feel  — or  how  long  would  they 
feel  — the  void  which  my  loss  would  make  in  their  existence  ? 
How  long  ! Yes,  such  is  the  frailty  of  man,  that  even  there, 
where  he  has  the  greatest  consciousness  of  his  own  being, 
where  he  makes  the  strongest  and  most  forcible  impression, 
even  in  the  memory,  in  the  heart,  of  his  beloved,  there  also 
he  must  perish,  — vanish,  — and  that  quickly. 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


75 


Oct.  27. 


I could  tear  open  my  bosom  with  vexation  to  think  how 
little  we  are  capable  of  influencing  the  feelings  of  each 
other.  No  one  can  communicate  to  me  those  sensations  of 
love,  joy,  rapture,  and  delight  which  I do  noX  naturally 
possess  ; and,  though  my  heart  may  glow  with  the  most 
lively  affection,  I cannot  make  the  happiness  of  one  in  whom 
the  same  warmth  is  not  inherent. 

Oct.  27:  Evening. 

I possess  so  much,  but  my  love  for  her  absorbs  it  all.  I 
possess  so  much,  but  without  her  I have  nothing. 


One  hundred  times  have  I been  on  the  point  of  embracing 
her.  Heavens  ! what  a torment  it  is  to  see  so  much  loveli- 
ness passing  and  repassing  before  us,  and  yet  not  dare  to 
lay  hold  of  it ! And  laying  hold  is  the  most  natural  of 
human  instincts.  Do  not  children  touch  every  thing  they 
see  ? And  I ! 


Witness,  heaven,  how  often  I lie  down  in  my  bed  with  a 
wish,  and  even  a hope,  that  1 may  never  awaken  again. 
And  in  the  morning,  when  I open  my  eyes,  I behold  the 
sun  once  more,  and  am  wretched.  If  I were  whimsical,  I 
might  blame  the  weather,  or  an  acquaintance,  or  some  per- 
sonal disappointment,  for  my  discontented  mind ; and  then 
this  insupportable  load  of  trouble  would  not  rest  entirely 
upon  myself.  But,  alas  ! I feel  it  too  sadly^.  I am  aloue 
the  cause  of  my  own  woe,  am  I not?  Truly,  my  own  bosom 
contains  the  source  of  all  my  sorrow,  as  it  previously  con- 
tained the  source  of  all  my  pleasure.  Am  I not  the  same 
being  who  once  enjoyed  an  excess  of  happiness,  who,  at 
every  step,  saw  paradise  open  before  him,  and  whose  heart 
was  ever  expanded  towards  the  whole  world?  And  this 
heart  is  now  dead,  no  sentiment  can  revive  it ; my  eyes  are 
dry ; and  my  senses,  no  more  refreshed  by  the  influence  of 
soft  tears,  wither  and  consume  my  brain.  I suffer  much, 
for  I have  lost  the  only  charm  of  life  : that  active,  sacred 
power  which  created  worlds  aroiind  me,  — it  is  no  morq,. 


When  I look  from  my  window  at  the  distant  hills,  and 
behold  the  morning  sun  breaking  through  the  mists,  and  : 
illuminating  the  country  around,  which  is  still  wrapped  iq 


Oct.  30. 


Nov.  3. 


76 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


silence,  whilst  the  soft  stream  winds  gently  through  the 
\/  willows,  which  have  shed  their  leaves  ; when  glorious  nature 
displays  all  her  beauties  before  me,  and  heT'wondrous  pros- 
pects are  ineffectual  to  extract  one  tear  of  joy  from  my 
withered  heart,  — I feel  that  in  such  a moment  I stand  like 
a reprobate  before  heaven,  hardened,  insensible,  and  un- 
moved. Oftentimes  do  I then  bend  my  knee  to  the  earth, 
and  implore  God  for  the  blessing  of  tears,  as  the  despond- 
ing laborer  in  some  scorching  climate  prays  for  the  dews  of 
heaven  to  moisten  his  parched  corn. 

But  I feel  that  God  does  not  grant  sunshine  or  rain  to  our 
importunate  entreaties.  And  oh  those  bygone  days,  whose 
memory  now  torments  me!  why  were  they  so  fortunate? 
Because  I then  waited  with  patience  for  the  blessings  of  the 
Eternal,  and  received  his  gifts  w'ith  the  grateful  feelings  of 
a thankful  heart. 


Nov.  8. 

Charlotte  has  reproved  me  for  my  excesses,  with  so  much 
tenderness  and  goodness  I 1 have  lately  been  in  the  habit 
of  drinking  more  wine  than  heretofore.  ‘"Don’t  do  it,” 
she  said.  “ Tliink  of  Charlotte!”  — “Think  of  you!”  I 
answered  ; “ need  you  bid  me  do  so?  Think  of  you  — I do 
not  think  of  you  : you  are  ever  before  my  soul ! This  very 
morning  I sat  on  the  spot  where,  a few  days  ago,  you 
descended  from  the  carriage,  and” — She  immediately 
changed  the  subject  to  prevent  me  from  pursuing  it  farther. 
My  dear  friend,  my  energies  are  all  prostrated : she  can  do 
with  me  what  she  pleases. 

Nov.  15. 

I thank  you,  W^ilhelm,  for  your  cordial  sympathy,  for 
your  excellent  advice  ; and  I implore  you  to  be  quiet.  Leave 
me  to  my  sufferings.  In  spite  of  mj'  wretchedness,  I have 
still  strength  enough  for  endurance.  I revere  religion  — 
you  know  I do.  I feel  that  it  can  impart  strength  to  the 
feeble  and  comfort  to  the  afflicted,  but  does  it  affect  all  men^ 
equally?  Consider  this  vast  universe:  you  will  see  thou- 
sands for  whom  it  has  never  existed,  thousands  for  whom  it 
will  never  exist,  whether  it  be  preached  to  them,  or  not : and 
must  it,  then,  necessarily  exist  for  me?  Does  not  the  Son  of 
God  himself  say  that  they  are  his  whom  the  Father  has 
given  to  him?  Have  I been  given  to  him?  What  if  the 
Father  will  retain  me  for  himself,  as  my  heart  sometimes* 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


77 


suggests?  I pray  you,  do  not  misinterpret  this.  Do  not 
extract  derision  from  my  harmless  words.  I pour  out  my 
whole  soul  before  you.  Silence  were  otherwise  preferable 
to  me,  but  I need  not  shrink  from  a subject  of  which  few 
know  more  than  I do  myself.  What  is  the  destiny  of  man, 
but  to  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  sufferings,  and  to  drink  his 
allotted  cup  of  bitterness?  And  if  that  same  cup  proved 
bitter  to  the  God  of  heaven,  under  a human  form,  why  should 
I affect  a foolish  pride,  and  call  it  sweet?  Wh}^  should  I be 
ashamed  of  shrinking  at  that  fearful  moment,  when  my 
whole  being  will  tremble  between  existence  and  annihilation, 
when  a remembrance  of  the  past,  like  a flash  of  lightning, 
will  Illuminate  the  dark  gulf  of  futurity,  when  every  thing 
shall  dissolve  around  me,  and  the  whole  world  vanish  away  ? 
Is  not  this  the  voice  of  a creature  oppressed  beyond  all 
resource,  self-deficient,  about  to  plunge  into  inevitable  de- 
struction, and  groaning  deeply  at  its  inadequate  strength, 
“ My  God  ! my  God  ! why  hast  thou  forsaken  me?”  And 
should  I feel  ashamed  to  utter  the  same  expression  ? 
Should  I not  shudder  at  a prospect  which  had  its  fears, 
even  for  him  who  folds  up  the  heavens  like  a garment  ? 


Nov.  21. 

She  does  not  feel,  she  does  not  know,  that  she  is  prepar- 
ing a poison  which  will  destroy  us  both  ; and  I drink  deeply 
of  the  draught  which  is  to  prove  my  desti’uction.  What 
mean  those  looks  of  kindness  with  which  she  often  — often? 
no,  not  often,  but  sometimes,  regards  me,  that  complacency 
with  which  she  hears  the  involuntary  sentiments  which  fre- 
quently escape  me,  and  the  tender  pity  for  my  sufferings 
which  appears  in  her  countenance  ? 

Yesterday,  when  I took  leave,  she  seized  me  by  the  hand, 
and  said,  “ Adieu,  dear  Werther.”  Dear  Werther  ! It  was 
the  first  time  she  ever  called  me  dear : the  sound  sunk  deep 
into  my  heart.  I have  repeated  it  a hundred  times  ; and 
last  night,  on  going  to  bed,  and  talking  to  myself  of  various 
things,  I suddenly  said,  “ Good-night,  dear  Werther!  ” and 
then  could  not  but  laugh  at  mj’self. 

Nov.  22. 

I cannot  pray,  “Leave  her  to  me!”  and  yet  she  often 
seems  to  belong  to  me.  I cannot  pra}'',  “ Give  her  to  me  ! ” 
for  she  is  another’s. , In  this  way  I affect  mirth  over  my 


78 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


troubles  ; and,  if  I had  time,  I could  compose  a whole  litany 
of  antitheses. 


Nov.  24. 

She  is  sensible  of  my  sufferings.  This  morning  her  look 
pierced  my  very  soul.  I found  her  alone,  and  she  was 
silent : she  steadfastly  surveyed  me.  I no  longer  saw  in  her 
face  the  charms  of  beauty  or  the  fire  of  genius : these  had 
disappeared.  But  I was  affected  by  an  expression  much 
more  touching,  a look  of  the  deepest  sympathy  and  of  the 
softest  pify.  Why  was  I afraid  to  throw  my  self  at  her  feet? 
Why  did  I not  dare  to  take  her  in  my  arms,  and  answer  her 
by  a thousand  kisses?  She  had  recourse  to  her  piano  for 
relief,  and  in  a low  and  sweet  voice  accompanied  the  music 
with  delicious  sounds.  Her  lips  never  appeared  so  lovely  : 
they  Seemed  but  just  to  open,  that  they  might  imbibe  the 
sweet  tones  which  issued  from  the  instrument,  and  return 
the  heavenly  vibration  from  her  lovely  mouth.  Oh ! who 
can  express  my'  sensations?  I was  quite  overcome,  and, 
bending  down,  pronounced  this  vow : “ Beautiful  lips,  which 
the  angels  guard,  never  will  I seek  to  profane  your  purity 
with  a kiss.”  And  yet,  my  friend,  Oh,  I wish  — but  my  heart 
is  darkened  by'  doubt  and  indecision  — could  I but  taste 
felicity,  and  then  die  to  expiate  the  sin  ! What  sin  ? 


Nov.  26. 

Oftentimes  I say  to  myself,  “ Thou  alone  art  wretched : 
all  other  mortals  are  happy',  — none  are  distressed  like  thee  ! 
Then  I read  a passage  iu  an  ancient  poet,  and  I seem  to 
understand  my  own  heart.  1 have  so  much  to  endure ! 
Have  men  before  me  ever  been  so  wretched  ? 


Nov.  30. 

I shall  never  be  myself  again ! Wherever  I go.  some 
fatality  occurs  to  distract  me.  Even  to-day  — alas  for  our 
destiny  ! alas  for  human  nature  ! 

About  dinner-time  I went  to  walk  by  the  river-side,  for  I 
had  no  appetite.  Every  thing  around  seemecT  gloomy : a 
cold- and -damp  easterly  wind  blew  from  the  mountains,  and 
black,  heavy  clouds  spread  over  the  plain.  I observed  at 
a distance  a man  iu  a tattered  coat : he  was  wandering  among 
the  rocks,  and  seemed  to  be  looking  for  plants.  When  I 
approached,  he  turned  round  at  the  noise  ; and  I saw  that  he 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


79 


had  an  interesting  countenance  in  which  a settled  melan- 
choly, strongly  marked  by  benevolence,  formed  the  principal 
feature.  His  long  black  hair  was  divided,  and  flowed  over 
his  shoulders.  As  his  garb  betokened  a person  of  the  lower 
order,  I thought  he  would  not  take  it  ill  if  I inquired  about 
his  business  ; and  I therefore  asked  what  he  was  seeking. 
He  replied,  with  a deep  sigh,  that  he  was  looking  for  flowers, 
and  could  find  none.  “ But  it  is  not  the  season,”  I observed, 
with  a smile.  “Oh,  there  are  so  many  flowers!”  he  an- 
swered, as  he  came  nearer  to  me.  “ In  my  garden  there  are 
roses  and  honeysuckles  of  two  sorts  : one  sort  was  given  to 
me  by  my  father ; they  grow  as  plentifully  as  weeds  ; I have 
been  looking  for  them  these  two  days,  and  cannot  And  them. 
There  are  flowers  out  there,  yellow,  blue,  and  red  ; and  that 
centaury  has  a very  pretty  blossom  : but  I can  And  none  of 
them.”  I observed  his  peculiarity,  and  therefore  asked  him, 
with  an  air  of  indifference,  what  he  intended  to  do  with  his 
flowers.  A strange  smile  overspread  his  countenance.  Hold- 
ing his  finger  to  his  mouth,  he  expressed  a hope  that  I would 
not  betray  him  ; and  he  then  informed  me  that  he  had  prom- 
ised to  gather  a nosegay  for  his  mistress.  “ That  is  right,” 
said  I.  “ Oh  ! ” he  replied,  ‘ ‘ she  possesses  many  other  things 
as  Well : she  is  very  rich.”  — “And  yet,”  I continued,  “ she 
likes  your  nosegays.”  — “Oh,  she  has  jewels  and  crowns  ! ” 
he  exclaimed.  I asked  who  she  was.  “If  the  states-gen- 
eral  would  but  pay  me,”  he  added,  “I  should  be  quite 
another  man.  Alas  ! there  was  a time  when  I was  so  happy  ; 
but  that  is  past,  and  I am  now  ” — He  raised  his  swimming 
eyes  to  heaven.  “ And  you  were  happy  once?  ” I observed. 
“ Ah,  would  I were  so  s1»ll  I ” was  his  reply.  “ I was  then 
as  gay  and  contented  as  a man  can  be.”  An  old  woman, 
who  was  coining  towards  us,  now  called  out,  “Henry,  Henry  I 
where  are  you?  We  have  been  looking  for  you  everywhere  : 
come  to  dinner.”  — “Is  he  yonr  son?  ” I inquired,  as  I went 
towards  her.  “ Yes,”  she  said  ; “ he  is  my  poor,  unfortunate 
son.  The  Lord  has  sent  me  a heavy  affliction.”  I asked 
whether  he  had  been  long  in  this  state.  She  answered, 
“ He  has  been  as  calm  as  he  is  at  present  for  about  six 
months.  I thank  Heaven  that  he  has  so  far  recovered : he 
was  for  one  whole  year  quite  raving,  and  chained  down  in 
a madhouse.  Now  he  injures  no  one,  but  talks  of  nothing 
else  than  kings  and  queens.  He  used  to  be  a very  good, 
quiet  youth,  and  helped  to  maintain  me ; he  wrote  a very 
line  hand ; but  all  at  once  he  became  melancholy,  was  seized 


80 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


with  a violent  fever,  grew  distracted,  and  is  now  as  you  see. 
If  I were  only  to  tell  you,  sir” — I interrupted  her  by 
asking  what  period  it  was  in  which  he  boasted  of  having 
been  so  happy.  “ Poor  boy  ! ” she  exclaimed,  with  a smile 
of  compassion,  “ he  means  the  time  when  he  was  completely 
deranged,  — a time  he  never  ceases  to  regret,  — when  he  was 
in  the  madhouse,  and  unconscious  of  every  thing.”  I was 
thunderstruck : I placed  a piece  of  money  in  her  hand,  and 
hastened  away. 

“You  were  happy!  ” I exclaimed,  as  I returned  quickly 
to  the  town,  “ ‘ as  gay  and  contented  as  a man  can  be ! ’ ' 
God  of  heaven  ! and  is  this  the  destiny  of  man  ? Is  he  only 
happy  before  he  has  acquired  his  reason,  or  after  he  has  lost 
it  ? Unfortunate  being  ! And  yet  I envy  your  fate  : I envy 
the  delusion  to  which  you  are  a victim.  You  go  forth  with 
joy  to  gather  flowers  for  your  princess,  — in  winter,  — and 
grieve  when  you  can  find  none,  and  cannot  understand  why 
they  do  not  grow.  But  I wander  forth  without  joy,  without 
hope,  without  design;  and  I return  as  I came.  Yoif fancy 
what  a man  you  would  be  if  the  states-general  paid  j'ou. 
Happy  mortal,  who  can  ascribe  your  wretchedness  to  an 
earthly  cause ! You  do  not  know,  you  do  not  feel,  that  in 
your  own  distracted  heart  and  disordered  brain  dwells  the 
source  of  that  unhappiness  which  all  the  potentates  on  earth 
cannot  relieve. 

Let  that  man  die  unconsoled  who  can  deride  the  invalid 
for  undertaking  a journey  to  distant,  healthful  springs.  — 
where  he  often  finds  only  a heavier  disease  and  a more 
painful  death,  — or  w'ho  can  exult  over  the  despairing  mind 
of  a sinner,  who,  to  obtain  peace  of  conscience  and  an 
alleviation  of  misery,  makes  a pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Sep- 
ulchre. Each  laborious  step  which  galls  his  wounded  feet 
in  rough  and  untrodden  paths  pours  a drop  of  balm  into 
his  troubled  soul,  and  the  journey  of  many  a weary  day 
brings  a nightly  relief  to  his  anguished  heart.  AVill  you 
dare  call  this  enthusiasm,  ye  crowd  of  pompous  declainiers? 
Enthusiasm ! O God ! thou  seest  my  tears.  Thou  hast 
allotted  us  our  portion  of  misery  : must  we  also  have  breth- 
ren to  persecute  us,  to  deprive  us  of  our  consolation,  of  our 
trust  in  thee,  and  in  thy  love  and  mercy?  For  our  tmst  in 
the  virtue  of  the  healing  root,  or  in  the  strength  of  the  vine, 
what  is  it  else  than  a belief  in  thee  from  whom  all  that  sur- 
rounds us  derives  its  healing  and  restoring  powers?  Father, 
whom  I kno'w  not,  — who  wert  once  wont  to  fill  mv  soul,  but 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


81 


who  now  hidest  thy  face  from  me,  — call  me  back  to  thee  ; 
be  silent  no  longer ; thy  silence  shall  not  delay  a soul  which 
thirsts  after  thee.  What  man,  what  father,  could  be  angry 
with  a son  for  returning  to  him  suddenly,  for  falling  on  his 
neck,  and  exclaiming,  “I  am  here  again,  my  father!  forgive 
me  if  I have  anticipated  my  journey,  and  returned  before 
the  appointed  time  I The  world  is  everywhere  the  same,  — 
a scene  of  labor  and  pain,  of  pleasure  and  reward ; but 
what  does  it  all  avail  ? I am  happy  only  where  thou  art,  and 
in  thy  presence  am  I content  to  suffer  or  enjoy.”  And 
woulclst  thou,  heavenly  Father,  banish  such  a child  from  thy 
presence  ? 

• 

Dec.  1. 

Wilhelm,  the  man  about  whom  I wrote  to  you  — that  man 
so  enviable  in  his  misfortunes  — was  secretary  to  Charlotte’s 
father ; and  an  unhappy  passion  for  her  which  he  cherished, 
concealed,  and  at  length  discovered,  caused  him  to  be  dis- 
missed from  his  situation.  This  made  him  mad.  Think, 
whilst  you  peruse  this  plain  narration,  what  an  impression 
the  circumstance  has  made  upon  me  ! But  it  was  related  to 
me  by  Albert  with  as  much  calmness  as  you  will  probably 
peruse  it. 


Dec.  4. 

I implore  your  attention.  It  is  all  over  with  me.  I can 
support  this  state  no  longer.  To-day  I was  sitting  by 
Charlotte.  She  was  playing  upon  her  piano  a succession 
of  delightful  melodies,  with  such  intense  expression  1 
little  sister  was  dressing  her  doll  upon  my  lap.  The  tears 
came  into  my  eyes.  I leaned  down,  and  looked  intently  at  her 
wedding-ring  : my  tears  fell  — immediately  she  began  to  play 
that  favorite,  that  divine  air  which  has  so  often  enchanted 
me.  I felt  comfort  from  a recollection  of  the  past,  of  those 
bygone  days  when  that  air  was  familiar  to  me  ; and  then 
I reealled  all  the  sorrows  and  the  disappointments  which  I 
had  since  endured.  I paced  with  hasty  strides  through  the 
room,  my  heart  became  convulsed  with  painful  emotions. 
At  length  I went  up  to  her,  and  exclaimed  with  eagerness, 
“For  Heaven’s  sake,  play  that  air  no  longer!”  She 
stopped,  and  looked  steadfastly  at  me.  She  then  said,  with 
a smile  which  sunk  deep  into  my  heart,  “ Werther,  you  are 
ill : your  dearest  food  is  distasteful  to  you.  But  go,  I 
entreat  you,  and  endeavor  to  compose  yourself.”  I tore 


82 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


myself  away.  God,  thou  seest  my  tonnents,  and  wilt  end 
them ! 

Dec.  6. 

How  her  image  haunts  me!  Wmking  or  asleep,  she  fills  ■ 
my  entire  soul ! Soon  as  I close  my  eyes,  here,  in  my  brain, 
where  all  the  nerves  of  vision  are  concentrated,  her  dark 
eyes  are  imprinted.  Here  — I do  not  know  how  to  describe 
it ; but,  if  I shut  my  eyes,  hers  are  immediately  before  me : 
dark  as  an  abyss  they  open  upon  me,  and  absorb  my  senses. 

And  what  is  man  — that  boasted  demigod  ? Do  not  his 
powers  fail  when  he  most  requires  their  use  ? And  whether 
he  soar  in  joy,  or  sink  in  sorrow,  is  not  his  career  in  both 
inevitably  arrested  ? And,  whilst  he  fondly  dreams  that  he 
is  grasping  at  infinity,  does  he  not  feel  compelled  to  return 
to  a consciousness  of  his  cold,  monotonous  existence? 


THE  EDITOR  TO  THE  READER. 

It  is  a matter  of  extreme  regret  that  we  want  original 
evidence  of  the  last  remarkable  days  of  our  friend  ; and  we 
are,  therefore,  obliged  to  interrupt  the  progress  of  his  cor- 
respondence, and  to  suppl}'  the  deficiency  b^'  a connected 
narration. 

I have  felt  it  my  duty  to  collect  accurate  information  from 
the  mouths  of  persons  well  acquainted  with  his  histoiy.  The 
story  is  simple  ; and  all  the  accounts  agree,  except  in  some 
unimportant  particulars.  It  is  true,  that,  with  respect  to  the 
characters  of  the  persons  spoken  of,  opinions  and  judgments 
vary. 

We  have  oul}',  then,  to  relate  conscientiously  the  facts 
which  our  diligent  labor  has  enabled  us  to  collect,  to  give 
the  letters  of  the  deceased,  and  to  pay  particular  attention 
to  the  slightest  fragment  from  his  pen,  more  especially  as  it 
is  so  difficult  to  discover  the  real  and  correct  motives  of  men 
who  are  not  of  the  common  order. 

Sorrow  and  discontent  had  taken  deep  root  in  Werther’s 
soul,  and  gradually  imparted  their  character  to  his  whole 
being.  The  harmony  of  his  mind  became  completely  dis- 
turbed ; a perpetual  excitement  and  mental  irritation,  which 


SORROAVS  OF  WERTHER. 


83 


weakened  his  natural  powers,  produced  the  saddest  effects 
upon  him,  and  rendered  him  at  length  the  victim  of  an  ex- 
haustion against  which  he  struggled  with  still  more  painful 
efforts  than  he  had  displa3'ed,  even  in  contending  with  his 
other  misfortunes.  His  mental  anxiety  weakened  his  various 
good  qualities  ; and  he  was  soon  converted  into  a gloomy 
companion,  — always  unhappy  and  unjust  in  his  ideas,  the 
more  wretched  he  became.  This  was,  at  least,  the  opinion 
of  Albert’s  friends.  Thej'  assert,  moreover,  that  the  char- 
acter of  Albert  himself  had  undergone  no  change  in  the  mean 
time  : he  was  still  the  same  being  whom  Werther  had  loved, 
honored,  and  respected  from  the  commencement.  His  love 
for  Charlotte  was  unbounded : he  was  proud  of  her,  and 
desired  that  she  should  be  recognized  by  every  one  as  the 
noblest  of  created  beings.  Was  he,  however,  to  blame  for 
wishing  to  avert  from  her  every  appearance  of  suspicion? 
or  for  his  unwillingness  to  share  his  rich  prize  with  another, 
even  for  a moment,  and  in  the  most  innocent  manner?  It 
is  asserted  that  Albert  frequently  retired  from  his  wife’s 
apartment  during  AYerther’s  visits  ; but  this  did  not  arise 
from  hatred  or  aversion  to  his  friend,  but  onl}^  from  a feeling 
that  his  presence  was  oppressive  to  AVerther. 

Charlotte’s  father,  who  was  confined  to  the  house  by  indis- 
position, was  accustomed  to  send  his  carriage  for  her,  that 
she  might  make  excursions  in  the  neighborhood.  One  day 
the  weather  had  been  unusually-  severe,  and  the  whole  country 
was  covered  with  snow. 

AYerther  went  for  Charlotte  the  following  morning,  in 
order  that,  if  Albert  were  absent,  he  might  conduct  her 
home. 

The  beautiful  weather  produced  but  little  impression  on 
his  troubled  spirit.  A heavy  weight  lay  upon  his  soul,  deep 
melancholy'  had  taken  possession  of  him,  and  his  mind  knew 
no  change  save  from  one  painful  thought  to  another. 

As  he  now  never  enjoymd  internal  peace,  the  condition  of 
his  fellow-creatures  was  to  him  a perpetual  source  of  trouble 
and  distress.  He  believed  he  had  disturbed  the  happiness 
of  Albert  and  his  wife ; and,  whilst  he  censured  himself 
strongly  for  this,  he  began  to  entertain  a secret  dislike  to 
Albert. 

His  thoughts  were  occasionally  directed  to  this  point. 
“ Yes,”  he  would  repeat  to  himself,  with  ill-concealed  dis- 
satisfaction, “yes,  this  is,  after  all,  the  extent  of  that  con- 
fiding, dear,  tender,  and  sympathetic  love,  that  calm  and 


84 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


eternal  fidelity ! What  do  I behold  but  satiety  and  indif- 
ference ? Does  not  every  frivolous  engagement  attract  him 
more  than  his  channing  and  lovely  wife?  Does  he  know 
how  to  prize  his  happiness?  Can  he  value  her  as  she  de- 
serves? He  possesses  her,  it  is  time,  — I know  that,  as  I 
know  much  more,  — and  I have  become  accustomed  to  the 
thought  that  he  will  drive  me  mad,  or,  perhaps,  murder  me. 
Is  his  friendship  towards  me  unimpaired  ? Does  he  not  view 
my  attachment  to  Charlotte  as  an  infringement  upon  his 
rights,  and  consider  m3’  attention  to  her  as  a silent  rebuke 
to  himself?  I know,  and  indeed  feel,  that  he  dislikes  me, 
— thatofip  wishes  for  m}^  absence, — that  my  presence  is 
hateful  ,to  him.” 

He  w aid  often  pause  when  on  his  way  to  visit  Charlotte, 
stand  still,  as  though  in  doubt,  and  seem  desirous  of  return- 
ing, but  ’■•’ould  nevertheless  proceed ; and,  engaged  in  such 
though.  nd  soliloquies  as  we  have  described,  he  finally 
reache  me  hunting-lodge,  with  a sort  of  involuntar3'  con- 
sent. 

Upon  one  occasion  he  entered  the  house  ; and,  inquiring 
for  Charlotte,  he  observed  that  the  inmates  were  in  a state 
of  unusual  confusion.  The  eldest  bov  informed  him  that  a 
dreadful  misfortune  had  occurred  at  Walheim, — that  a peas- 
ant had  been  murdered  ! But  this  made  little  impression 
upon  him.  Entering  the  apartment,  he  found  Charlotte 
engaged  reasoning  with  her  father,  who,  in  spite  of  his  in- 
firmity, insisted  on  going  to  the  scene  of  the  crime,  in  order 
to  institute  an  inquiiw.  The  criminal  was  unknown : the 
victim  had  been  found  dead  at  his  own  door  that  morning. 
Suspicions  were  excited  : the  murdered  man  had  been  in  the, 
service  of  a widow,  and  the  person  who  had  previousl3’  filled 
the  situation  had  been  dismissed  from  her  emplo3'meut. 

As  soon  as  Werther  heard  this,  he  exclaimed  with  great 
excitement,  “Is  it  possible!  I must  go  to  the  spot  — I 
cannot  dela\’  a moment  1 ” He  hastened  to  Walheim.  Every 
incident  returned  vividl}^  to  his  remembrance  ; and  he  enter- 
tained not  the  slightest  doubt  that  that  man  was  the  mur- 
derer to  whom  he  had  so  often  spoken,  and  for  whom  he 
entertained  so  much  regard.  His  way  took  him  past  the 
well-known  lime-trees,  to  the  house  where  the  body  had  been 
carried  ; and  his  feelings  were  greatly  excited  at  the  sight 
of  the  fondly  recollected  spot.  That  threshold  where  the 
neighbors’  children  had  so  often  played  togetlier  was  stained 
with  blood  ; love  and  attachment,  the  noblest  feelings  of 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


85 


human  nature,  had  been  converted  into  violence  and  murder. 
The  huge  trees  stood  there  leafless  and  covered  with  hoar- 
frost ; the  beautiful  hedgerows  which  surrounded  the  old 
churchyard-wall  were  withered ; and  the  gravestones,  half 
covered  with  snow,  were  visible  through  the  openings. 

As  he  approached  the  inn,  in  front  of  which  the  whole 
village  was  assembled,  screams  were  suddenly  heard.  A 
troop  of  armed  peasants  was  seen  approaching,  and  every 
one  exclaimed  that  the  criminal  had  been  appi’ehended. 
Werther  looked,  and  was  not  long  in  doubt.  The  prisoner 
was  no  other  than  the  seiwant,  who  had  been  . ■rmeiiy  so 
attached  to  the  widow,  and  whom  he  had  met  prow.  ^ about, 
with  that  suppressed  anger  and  ill-concealed  dospoir  which 
we  have  before  described.  9 

“AVhat  have  yon  done,  unfortunate  man?”  inquired  Wer- 
ther,  as  he  advanced  towards  the  prisoner.  The  turned 
his  eyes  upon  him  in  silence,  and  then  replied  W. 
composure,  “ No  one  will  now  marry  her,  and  she  v bmarry 
no  one.”  The  prisoner  was  taken  in  the  inn,  and  v'erther 
left  the  place. 

The  mind  of  Werther  was  fearfully  excited  by  this  shock- 
ing occurrence.  He  ceased,  however,  to  be  oppressed  by 
his  usual  feeling  of  melancholy,  moroseuess,  and  indifference 
to  every  thing  that  passed  around  him.  He  entertained  a 
strong  degree  of  pity  for  the  prisoner,  and  was  seized  with 
an  indescribable  anxiety  to  save  him  from  his  impending 
fate.  He  considered  him  so  unfortunate,  he  deemed  his 
crime  so  excusable,  and  thought  his  own  condition  so  nearly 
similar,  that  he  felt  convinced  he  could  make  every  one  else 
view  the  matter  in  the  light  in  which  he  saw  it  himself.  He 
now  became  anxious  to  undertake  his  defence,  and  com- 
menced composing  an  eloquent  speech  for  the  occasion  ; and, 
on  his  way  to  the  hunting-lodge,  he  could  not  refrain  from 
speaking  aloud  the  statement  which  he  resolved  to  make  to 
the  judge. 

Upon  his  arrival,  he  found  Albert  had  been  before  him: 
and  he  was  a little  perplexed  by  this  meeting ; but  he  soon 
recovered  himself,  and  expressed  his  opinion  with  much 
warmth  to  the  judge.  The  latter  shook  his  head  doubtiugly  ; 
and  although  Werther  urged  his  case  with  the  utmost  zeal, 
feeling,  and  determination  in  defence  of  his  client,  yet,  as 
we  may  easily  suppose,  the  judge  was  not  much  influenced 
by  his  appeal.  On  the  contrary,  he  interrupted  him  in  his 
address,  reasoned  with  him  seriously,  and  even  administered 


86 


SORROWS  OF  WERTIIER, 


a rebuke  to  him  for  becoming  the  advocate  of  a murderer. 
He  demonstrated,  that,  according  to  this  precedent,  every 
law  might  be  violated,  and  the  public  secuiity  utterly  de- 
stroyed. He  added,  moreover,  that  in  such  a case  he  could 
himself  do  nothing,  without  incurring  the  greatest  responsi- 
bility ; that  every  thing  must  follow  in  the  usual  course,  and 
pursue  the  ordinary  channel. 

Werther,  however,  did  not  abandon  his  enterprise,  and 
even  besought  the  judge  to  connive  at  the  flight  of  the  pris- 
oner. But  this  proposal  was  peremptorily  rejected.  Albert, 
who  had  taken  some  part  in  the  discussion,  coincided  in 
opinion  with  the  judge.  At  this  Werther  became  enraged, 
and  took  his  leave  in  great  anger,  after  the  judge  had  more 
than  once  assured  him  that  the  prisoner  could  not  be  saved. 

The  excess  of  his  grief  at  this  assurance  may  be  infen’ed 
from  a note  we  have  found  amongst  his  papers,  and  which 
was  doubtless  written  upon  this  very  occasion. 

“You  cannot  be  saved,  unfortunate  man!  I see  clearly 
that  we  cannot  be  saved  ! ’ ’ 

Werther  was  highly  incensed  at  the  observations  which 
Albert  had  made  to  the  judge  in  this  matter  of  the  prisoner. 
He  thought  he  could  detect  therein  a little  bitterness  towards 
himself  personally ; and  although,  upon  reflection,  it  could 
not  escape  his  sound  judgment  that  their  view  of  the  matter 
was  correct,  he  felt  the  greatest  possible  reluctance  to  make 
such  an  admission. 

A memorandum  of  Werther’s  upon  this  point,  expressive 
of  his  general  feelings  towards  Albert,  has  been  found 
arhongst  his  papers. 

“ What  is  the  use  of  my  continually  repeating  that  he  is  a 
good  and  estimable  man  ? He  is  an  inward  torment  to  me, 
and  I am  incapable  of  being  just  towards  him.” 

One  fine  evening  in  winter,  when  the  weather  seemed 
inclined  to  thaw,  Charlotte  and  Albert  were  returning  home 
together.  The  former  looked  from  time  to  time  about  her,  as 
if  she  missed  Werther’s  company.  Albert  began  to  speak  of 
him,  and  censured  him  for  his  prejudices.  He  alluded  to  his 
unfortunate  attachment,  and  wished  it  were  possible  to  dis- 
continue his  acquaintance.  “ I desire  it  on  our  own  account.” 
he  added  ; “ and  I request  you  will  compel  him  to  alter  his 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


87 


deportment  towards  you,  and  to  visit  you  less  frequently. 
The  world  is  censorious,  and  I know  that  here  and  there  we 
are  spoken  of.”  Charlotte  made  no  reply,  and  Albert 
seemed  to  feel  her  silence.  At  least,  from  that  time,  he 
never  again  spoke  of  Werther ; and,  when  she  introduced 
the  subject,  he  allowed  the  conversation  to  die  away,  or  else 
he  directed  the  discourse  into  another  channel. 

The  vain  attempt  Werther  had  made  to  save  the  unhappy 
murderer  was  the  last  feeble  glimmering  of  a flame  about  to 
be  extinguished.  He  sank  almost  immediately  afterwards 
into  a state  of  gloom  and  inactivity,  until  he  was  at  length 
brought  to  perfect  distraction  by  learning  that  he  was  to  be 
summoned  as  a witness  against  the  prisoner,  who  asserted 
his  complete  innocence. 

His  mind  now  became  oppressed  by  the  recollection  of 
every  misfortune  of  his  past  life.  The  mortification  he  had 
suffered  at  the  ambassador’s,  and  his  subsequent  troubles, 
were  revived  in  his  memory.  He  became  utterly  inactive. 
Destitute  of  energy,  he  was  cut  off  from  every  pursuit  and 
occupation  which  compose  the  business  of  common  life  ; and 
he  became  a victim  to  his  own, susceptibility,  and  to  his  rest- 
less passion  for  the  most  amiable  and  beloved  of  women, 
whose  peace  he  destroyed.  In  this  unvarying  monotony  of 
existence  his  days  were  consumed ; and  his  powers  became 
exhausted  without  aim  or  design,  until  they  brought  him  to 
a sorrowful  end. 

A few  letters  which  he  left  behind,  and  which  we  here 
subjoin,  afford  the  best  proofs  of  his  anxiety  of  mind  and 
of  the  depth  of  his  passion,  as  well  as  of  his  doubts  and 
struggles,  and  of  'his  weariness  of  life. 

Dec.  12. 

Dear  Wilhelm,  I am  reduced  to  the  condition  of  those 
unfortunate  'wTetches  who  believe  they  are  pursued  by  an 
efvil  spirit.  Sometimes  I am  oppressed,  not  by  apprehension 
6r  fear,  'but  by  an  inexpressible  internal  sensation,  which 
weighs  upon  my  heart,  and  impedes  my  breath ! Then  I 
wander  forth  at  night,  even  in  this  tempestuous  season,  and 
feeTpleasure  in  surveying  the  dreadful  scenes  around  me. 

Westerday  evening  I went  forth.  A rapid  thaw  had  sud- 
denly set  in : I had  been  infoimed  ^hat  the  river  had  risen, 
that  the  brooks  had  ail  overflowed  tlieii*  banks,  and  that  the 
whole  vale  Walheim  was  underwater!  Upon  the  stroke 
of  twelve  I hastened  forth.  I beheld  a fearfu'i  sight.  The 


88 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


foaming  torrents  rolled  from  the  mountains  in  the  moonlight, 
— tields  and  meadows,  trees  and  hedges,  were  confounded 
together  ; and  the  entire  valley  was  converted  into  a deep 
lake,  which  w'as  agitated  by  the  roaring  wind ! And  when 
the  moon  shone  forth,  and  tinged  the  black  clouds  with  silver, 
and  the  impetuous  torrent  at  my  feet  foamed  and  resounded 
with  awful  and  grand  impetuosity,  I was  overcome  by  a 
mingled  sensation  of  apprehension  and  delight.  With  ex- 
tended arms  I looked  down  into  the  yawning  abyss,  and  cried, 
“Plunge!”  For  a moment  my  senses  forsook  me.  in  the 
intense  delight  of  ending  my  sorrows  and  my  sufferings  by  a 
plunge  into  that  gulf ! And  then  I felt  as  if  I were  rooted 
to  the  earth,  and  incapable  of  seeking  an  end  to  my  woes  1 
But  my  hour  is  not  yet  come  : I feel  it  is  not.  O Wilhelm, 
how  willingly  could  I abandon  m3'  existence  to  ride  the 
whirlwind,  or  to  embrace  the  torrent  I and  then  might  not 
rapture  perchance  be  the  portion  of  this  liberated  soul  ? 

I turned  my  sorrowful  e3’es  towards  a favorite  spot,  where 
I was  accustomed  to  sit  with  Charlotte  beneath  a willow 
after  a fatiguing  walk.  Alas  I it  was  covered  with  water, 
and  with  dilticult}'  I found  even  the  meadow.  And  the  fields 
around  the  huntino-lodo-e,  thought  I.  Has  our  dear  bower 
been  destro}'ed  by  this  unpit3nng  storm?  And  a beam  of 
past  happiness  streamed  upon  me;  as  the  mind  of  a captive 
is  illumined  by  dreams  of  flocks  and  herds  and  bygone  joys 
of  home  ! But  I am  free  from  blame.  I have  courage  to 
die  ! Perhaps  I have,  — but  I still  sit  here,  like  a wretched 
pauper,  who  collects  fagots,  and  begs  her  bread  from  door  to 
door,  that  she  may  prolong  for  a few  days  a miserable  exist- 
ence which  she  is  unwilling  to  resign. 

DF-r.  15. 

What  is  the  matter  with  me,  dear  Wilhelm  ? I am  afraid 
of  m3'self ! Is  not  1113'  love  for  her  of  the  purest,  most  h 'ly, 
and  most  brotherly  nature?  Has  m3' soul  ever  been  sullied 
b3'  a single  sensual  desire?  but  I will  make  no  protestations 
And  now,  3m  nightl3’  visions,  how  truW  have  those  irioita^’'' 
understood  3'ou,  who  ascribe  your  various  contradictej 
effects  to  some  invincible  power!  This  night  — I trembleV 
the  avowal  — I held  her  in  my  arms,  locked  in  a close 
brace:  I pressed  her  to  ihv  imsem,  and  covered  with  co» 
less  kisses  those  dear  lips  which  murmured  in  reph' 
protestations  of  love.  I'ly  sight  became  confused  .b-^ 
delicious  ’iitoxicatiou  of  her  eyes.  Heavens’ ! is  it  sinfu 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


89 


revel  again  in  such  happiness,  to  recall  once  more  those 
rapturous  moments  with  intense  delight?  Charlotte!  Char- 
lotte I I am  lost ! My  senses  are  bewildered,  my  recollection 
is  confused,  mine  eyes  are  bathed  in  tears  — I am  ill ; and 
yet  I am  well  — I wish  for  nothing  — I have  no  desires  — it 
were  better  I were  gone. 

Under  the  circumstances  narrated  above,  a determination 
to  quit  this  world  had  now  taken  fixed  possession  of  Wer- 
ther’s  soul.  Since  Charlotte’s  return,  this  thought  had  been 
the  final  object  of  all  his  hopes  and  wishes  ; but  he  had 
resolved  that  such  a step  should  not  be  taken  with  precipita- 
tion, but  with  calmness  and  tranquillity,  and  with  the  most 
perfect  deliberation. 

His  troubles  and  internal  struggles  may  be  understood 
from  the  following  fragment,  which  was  found,  without  any 
date,  amongst  his  papers,  and  appears  to  have  formed  the 
beginning  of  a letter  to  Wilhelm. 

“ Her  presence,  her  fate,  her  sympathy  for  me,  have 
power  still  to  extract  tears  from  my  withered  brain. 

“ One  lifts  up  the  curtain,  and  passes  to  the  other  side, — 
that  is  all ! And  why  all  these  doubts  and  delays  ? Because 
we  know  not  what  is  behind  — because  there  is  no  returning 
— and  because  our  mind  infers  that  all  is  darkness  and  con- 
fusion, where  we  have  nothing  but  uncertainty.” 

His  appearance  at  length  became  quite  altered  by  the  effect 
of  his  melancholy  thoughts ; and  his  resolution  was  now 
finally  and  irrevocably  taken,  of  which  the  following  ambig- 
uous letter,  which  he  addressed  to  his  friend,  may  appear  to 
afford  some  proof. 

Dec.  20. 

I am  grateful  to  your  love,  Wilhelm,  for  having  repeated 
your  advice  so  seasonably.  Yes,  you  are  right : it  is  un- 
doubtedly better  that  I should  depart.  But  I do  not  entirely 
approve  your  scheme  of  returning  at  once  to  your  neighbor- 
hood ; at  least,  I should  like  to  make  a little  excursion  on 
the  way,  particularly  as  we  may  now  expect  a continued 
frost,  and  consequent!}'  good  roads.  I am  much  pleased 
with  your  intention  of  coming  to  fetch  me  ; only  delay  your 
journey  for  a fortnight,  and  wait  for  another  letter  from  me. 
One  should  gather  nothing  before  it  is  ripe,  and  a fortnight 


90 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


sooner  or  later  makes  a great  difference.  Entreat  m3’  mother 
to  pray  for  her  son,  and  tell  her  I beg  her  pardon  for  all  the 
unhappiness  I have  occasioned  her.  It  has  ever  been  my 
fate  to  give  pain  to  those  whose  happiness  I should  have 
promoted.  Adieu,  my  dearest  friend.  May  every  blessing 
of  heaven  attend  you  ! Farewell. 

We  find  it  difficult  to  express  the  emotions  with  which 
Charlotte’s  soul  was  agitated  during  the  whole  of  this  time, 
whether  in  relation  to  her  husband  or  to  her  unfortunate 
friend ; although  we  are  enabled,  by  our  knowledge  of  her 
character,  to  understand  their  nature. 

It  is  certain  that  she  had  formed  a determination,  b}'  eveiy 
means  in  her  power  to  keep  Werther  at  a distance ; and,  if 
she  hesitated  in  her  decision,  it  was  from  a sincere  feeling 
of  friendly  pity,  knowing  how  much  it  would  cost  him,  — 
indeed,  that  he  would  find  it  almost  impossible  to  comply 
with  her  wishes.  But  various  causes  now  urged  her  to  l)e 
firm.  Her  husband  preserved  a strict  silence  about  the 
whole  matter  ; and  she  never  made  it  a subject  of  conversa- 
tion, feeling  bound  to  prove  to  him  b}’  her  conduct  that  her 
sentiments  agreed  with  his. 

The  same  day,  which  was  the  Sunda}’  before  Christmas, 
after  '\Yerther  had  written  the  last-mentioned  letter  to  his 
friend,  he  came  in  the  evening  to  Charlotte’s  house,  and 
found  her  alone.  She  was  busy  preparing  some  little  gifts 
for  her  brothers  and  sisters,  which  were  to  be  distributed  to 
them  on  Christmas  Day.  He  began  talking  of  the  delight 
of  the  children,  and  of  that  age  when  the  sudden  appearance 
of  the  Christmas-tree,  decorated  with  fruit  and  sweetmeats, 
and  lighted  up  with  wax  caudles,  causes  such  transports  of 
joy.  “You  shall  have  a gift  too,  if  3'ou  behave  well.” 
said  Charlotte,  hiding  her  embarrassment  under  a sweet 
smile.  “ And  what  do  you  call  behaving  well?  ^Yhat  should 
I do,  what  can  I do,  my  dear  Charlotte?  ” said  he.  “ Thurs- 
day night,”  she  answered,  “is  Christmas  Eve.  The  chil- 
dren are  all  to  be  here,  and  my  father  too  : there  is  a present 
for  each  ; do  3’ou  come  likewise,  but  do  not  come  before  that 
time.”  Werther  started.  “I  desire  }’OU  will  not:  it  must 
be  so,”  she  continued.  “ I ask  it  of  3’OU  as  a favor,  for  my 
own  peace  and  tranquillit}’.  We  cannot  go  on  in  this  manner 
any  longer.”  He  turned  away  his  face,  walked  hastilv  up  and 
down  the  room,  muttering  iudistincth',  “We  cannot  go  on 
in  this  manner  any  longer!  ” Charlotte,  seeing  the  violent 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


91 


agitation  into  which  these  words  had  thrown  him,  endeavored 
to  divert  his  thoughts  by  different  questions,  but  in  vain. 
“No,  Charlotte!’’  he  exclaimed;  “I  will  never  see  }mu 
anymore!”  “And  why  so?”  she  answered.  “We  may 
— we  must  see  each  other  again;  only  let  it  be  with  more 
discretion.  Oh  ! why  were  you  born  with  that  excessive, 
that  ungovernable  passion  for  every  thing  that  is  dear  to 
you?”  Then,  taking  his  hand,  she  said,  “I  entreat  of  you 
to  be  more  calm  : your  talents,  your  understanding,  your 
genius,  will  furnish  you  with  a thousand  resources.  Be  a 
man,  and  conquer  au  unhappy  attachment  towards  a creature 
who  can  do  nothing  but  pity  you.”  He  bit  his  lips,  and 
looked  at  her  with  a gloomy  countenance.  She  continued 
to  hold  his  hand.  “Grant  me  but  a moment’s  patience, 
Werther,”  she  said.  “ Do  you  not  see  that  you  are  deceiv- 
ing yourself,  that  you  are  seeking  your  own  destruction? 
Why  must  you  love  me,  me  only,  who  belong  to  another? 
I fear,  I much  fear,  that  it  is  only  the  impossibility  of  pos- 
sessing me  which  makes  your  desire  for  me  so  strong.”  He 
drew  back  his  hand,  whilst  he  surveyed  her  with  a wild  and 
angry  look.  “ ’Tis  well!  ” he  exclaimed,  “ ’tis  very  well! 
Did  not  Albert  furnish  you  with  this  reflection  ? It  is  pro- 
found, a very  profound  remark.”  — “A  reflection  that  any 
one  might  easily  make,”  she  answered;  “and  is  there  not 
a woman  in  the  whole  world  who  is  at  liberty,  and  has  the 
power  to  make  you  happy  ? Conquer  yourself : look  for 
such  a being,  and  believe  me  when  I say  that  j’ou  wiU  cer- 
tainly find  her.  I have  long  felt  for  you,  and  for  us  all : 
you  have  confined  yourself  too  long  within  the  limits  of  too 
narrow  a circle.  Conquer  yourself ; make  an  effort : a 
short  journey  will  be  of  service  to  you.  Seek  and  find  au 
object  worthy  of  your  love ; then  return  hither,  and  let  us 
enjoy  together  all  the  happiness  of  the  most  perfect  friend- 
ship.” 

“This  speech,”  replied  Werther  with  a cold  smile,  “this 
speech  should  be  printed,  for  the  benefit  of  all  teachers. 
My  dear  Charlotte,  allow  me  but  a short  time  longer,  and  all 
will  be  well.”  — “ But  however,  Werther,”  she  added,  “do 
not  come  again  before  Christmas.”  He  was  about  to  make 
some  answer,  when  Albert  came  in.  They  saluted  each 
other  coldly,  and  with  mutual  embarrassment  paced  up  and 
down  the  room.  Werther  made  some  common  remarks; 
Albert  did  the  same,  and  their  conversation  soon  dropped. 
Albert  asked  his  wife  about  some  household  matters ; and, 


92 


SORROWS  OF  WERTIIER. 


finding  that  his  commissions  were  not  executed,  he  used 
some  expressions  which,  to  Werther’s  ear,  savored  of  ex- 
treme harshness.  He  wished  to  go,  but  had  not  power  to 
move  ; and  in  this  situation  he  remained  till  eight  o’clock, 
his  uneasiness  and  discontent  continually  increasing.  At 
length  the  cloth  was  laid  for  supper,  and  he  took  up  his  hat 
and  stick.  Albert  invited  him  to  remain ; but  Werther, 
fancying  that  he  was  merel}'  paying  a formal  compliment, 
thanked  him  coldly,  and  left  the  house. 

Werther  returned  home,  took  the  candle  from  his  ser\mnt, 
and  retired  to  his  room  alone.  He  talked  for  some  time 
with  great  earnestness  to  himself,  wept  aloud,  walked  in  a 
state  of  great  excitement  through  his  chamber  ; till  at  length, 
without  undressing,  he  threw  himself  on  the  bed,  where  he 
was  found  by  his  servant  at  eleven  o’clock,  when  the  latter 
ventured  to  enter  the  room,  and  take  off  his  boots.  Werther 
did  not  prevent  him,  but  forbade  him  to  come  in  the  morning 
till  he  should  ring. 

On  Monday  morning,  the  21st  of  December,  he  wrote  to 
Charlotte  the  following  letter,  which  was  found,  sealed,  on 
his  bureau  after  his  death,  and  was  given  to  her.  I shall 
insert  it  in  fragments  ; as  it  appears,  from  several  circum- 
stances, to  have  been  written  in  that  manner. 

“It  is  all  over,  Charlotte  : I am  resolved  to  die  ! I make 
this  declaration  deliberately  and  coolly,  without  any  romantic 
passion,  on  this  morning  of  the  day  when  I am  to  see  you 
for  the  last  time.  At  the  moment  you  read  these  lines,  O 
best  of  women,  the  cold  grave  will  hold  the  inanimate 
remains  of  that  restless  and  unhappy  being  who,  in  the  last 
moments  of  his  existence,  knew  no  pleasure  so  great  as  that 
of  conversing  with  you  ! I have  passed  a dreadful  night  — or 
rather,  let  me  say,  a propitious  one  ; for  it  has  given  me 
resolution,  it  has  fixed  my  purpose.  I am  resolved  to  die. 
When  I tore  myself  from  you  yesterday,  my  senses  were  iu 
tumult  and  disorder ; my  heart  was  oppressed,  hope  and 
pleasure  had  fled  from  me  forever,  and  a petrifying  cold  had 
seized  my  wretched  being.  I could  scarcely  reach  my  room. 
I threw  myself  on  mj'  knees  ; and  Heaven,  for  the  last  time, 
granted  me  the  consolation  of  shedding  tears.  A thousand 
ideas,  a thousand  schemes,  arose  within  my  soul ; till  at 
length  one  last,  fixed,  final  thought  took  possession  of  my 
heart.  It  was  to  die.  I lay  down  to  rest ; and  iu  the  morn- 
ing, in  the  quiet  hour  of  awakening,  the  same  determination 


SORROAVS  OF  WERTHER. 


93 


was  upon  me.  To  die-!  It  is  not  despair:  it  is  conviction 
that  I have  filled  up  the  measure  of  my  sufferings,  that  I 
have  reached  my  appointed  term,  and  must  sacrifice  myself 
for  thee.  Yes,  Charlotte,  why  should  I not  avow  it?  One 
of  us  three  must  die  : it  shall  be  AVerther.  O beloved  Char- 
lotte ! this  heart,  excited  by  rage  and  fury,  has  often  con- 
ceived the  horrid  idea  of  murdering  your  husband  — you  — 
myself  ! The  lot  is  cast  at  length.  And  in  the  bright,  quiet 
evenings  of  summer,  when  you  sometimes  wander  towards 
the  mountains,  let  your  thoughts  then  turn  to  me : recollect 
how  often  you  have  watched  me  coming  to  meet  you  from 
the  valley  ; then  bend  your  eyes  upon  the  churchyard  which 
contains  my  grave,  and,  by  the  light  of  the  setting  sun, 
mark  how  the  evening  breeze  waves  the  tall  gi’ass  which 
grows  above  my  tomb.  I was  calm  when  I began  this  letter, 
but  the  recollection  of  these  scenes  makes  me  weep  like  a 
child.” 

About  ten  in  the  morning,  AA'’erther  called  his  servant, 
and,  whilst  he  was  dressing,  told  him  that  in  a few  days  he 
intended  to  set  out  upon  a journey,  and  bade  him  therefore 
lay  his  clothes  in  order,  and  prepare  them  for  packing  up, 
call  in  all  his  accounts,  fetch  home  the  books  he  had  lent, 
and  give  two  months’  pay  to  the  poor  dependants  who  were 
accustomed  to  receive  from  him  a weekly  allowance. 

He  breakfasted  in  his  room,  and  then  mounted  his  horse., 
and  went  to  visit  the  steward,  who,  however,  was  not  at 
home.  He  walked  pensively  in  the  garden,  and  seemed 
anxious  to  renew  all  the  ideas  that  were  most  painful  to  him. 

The  children  did  not  suffer  him  to  remain  alone  long. 
They  followed  him,  skipping  and  dancing  before  him,  and 
told  him,  that  after  to-morrow  — and  to-morrow  — and  one 
day  more,  they  were  to  receive  their  Christmas  gift  from 
Charlotte  ; and  they  then  recounted  all  the  wonders  of  which 
they  had  formed  ideas  in  their  child  imaginations.  “ To- 
morrow— and  to-morrow,”  said  he,  “ and  one  day  more  ! ” 
And  he  kissed  them  tenderly.  He  was  going ; but  the 
younger  boy  stopped  him,  to  whisper  something  in  his  ear. 
He  told  him  that  his  elder  brothers  had  wntten  splendid 
New-Year’s  wishes  — so  large  ! — one  for  papa,  and  another 
for  Albert  and  Charlotte,  and  one  for  AFerther ; and  they 
were  to  be  presented  early  in  the  morning,  on  New-Year’s 
,Day.  This  quite  overcame  him.  He  made  each  of  the 
children  a present,  mounted  his  horse,  left  his  compliments 


94 


SORROWS  OF  AVERTHER. 


for  papa  and  mamma,  and,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  rode  away 
from  the  place. 

He  returned  home  about  five  o’clock,  ordered  his  servant 
to  keep  up  his  fire,  desired  him  to  pack  his  books  and  linen 
at  the  bottom  of  the  trunk,  and  to  place  his  coats  at  the  top. 
He  then  appears  to  have  made  the  following  addition  to  the 
letter  addressed  to  Charlotte  : — 

“You  do  not  expect  me.  You  think  I will  obey  you,  and 
'not  visit  you  again  till  Christmas  Eve.  O Charlotte,  to-day 
or  never ! On  Christmas  Eve  you  will  hold  this  paper  in 
your  hand ; you  will  tremble,  and  moisten  it  with  your  tears. 
1 will  — I must ! Oh,  how  happy  I feel  to  be  determined  ! ’’ 

In  the  mean  time,  Charlotte  was  in  a pitiable  state  of  mind. 
After  her  last  conversation  with  AYerther,  she  found  how 
painful  to  herself  it  would  be  to  decline  his  visits,  and  knew 
how  severely  he  would  suffer  from  their  separation. 

She  had,  in  conversation  with  Albert,  mentioned  casually 
that  AYerther  would  not  return  before  Christmas  Eve;  and 
soon  afterwards  Albert  went  on  horseback  to  see  a person  in 
the  neighborhood,  with  whom  he  had  to  transact  some  busi- 
ness which  would  detain  him  all  night. 

Charlotte  was  sitting  alone.  None  of  her  family  were 
near,  and  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  reflections  that  silently 
took  possession  of  her  mind.  She  was  forever  united  to  a 
husband  whose  love  and  fidelity  she  had  proved,  to  whom 
she  was  heartily  devoted,  and  who  seemed  to  be  a special 
gift  from  Heaven  to  insure  her  happiness.  On  the  other*;, 
hand,  Werther  had  become  dear  to  her.  There  was  a cordial 
unanimity  of  sentiment  between  them  from  the  very  first 
hour  of  their  acquaintance,  and  their  long  association  and 
repeated  interviews  had  made  an  indelible  impression  upon 
her  heart.  She  had  been  accustomed  to  communicate  to  him 
every  thought  aud  feeling  which  interested  her.  and  his 
absence  threatened  to  open  a void  in  her  existence  which  it 
might  be  impossible  to  fill.  How  heartily  she  wished  that 
she  might  change  him  into  her  brother, — that  she  could 
induce  him  to  marry  one  of  her  own  friends,  or  could  re- 
establish his  intimacy  with  Albert. 

She  passed  all  her  intimate  friends  in  review  before  her 
mind,  but  found  something  objectionable  in  each,  and  could 
decide  upon  none  to  whom  she  would  consent  to  give  him. 

Amid  aU  these  considerations  she  felt  deeply  but  indis- 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


95 


tinctly  that  her  own  real  but  unexpressed  wish  was  to  retain 
him  for  herself,  and  her  pure  and  amiable  heart  felt  from 
this  thought  a sense  of  oppression  which  seemed  to  forbid  a 
prospect  of  happiness.  She  was  wretched : a dark  cloud 
obscured  her  mental  vision. 

It  was  now  half-past  six  o’clock,  and  she  heard  Werther’s 
step  on  the  stairs.  She  at  once  recognized  his  voice,  as  he 
inquired  if  she  were  at  home.  Her  heart  beat  audibly  — we 
could  almost  say  for  the  first  time  — at  his  arrival.  It  was 
too  late  to  deny  herself ; and,  as  he  entered,  she  exclaimed, 
with  a sort  of  ill-concealed  confusion,  “You  have  not  kept 
your  word  ! ” — “I  promised  nothing,”  he  answered.  “ But 
you  should  have  complied,  at  least  for  my  sake,”  she  con- 
tinued. “ I implore  you,  for  both  our  sakes.” 

She  scarcely  knew  what  she  said  or  did,  and  sent  for  some 
friends,  who,  by  their  presence,  might  prevent  her  being  left 
alone  with  Werther.  He  put  down  some  books  he  had  brought 
with  him,  then  made  inquiries  about  some  others,  until  she 
began  to  hope  that  her  friends  might  arrive  shortly,  enter- 
taining at  the  same  time  a desire  that  they  might  stay  away. 

At  one  moment  she  felt  anxious  that  the  servant  should 
remain  in  the  adjoining  room,  then  she  changed  her  mind. 
Werther,  meanwhile,  walked  impatiently  up  and  down.  She 
went  to  the  piano,  and  determined  not  to  retire.  She  then 
collected  her  thoughts,  and  sat  down  quietly  at  Werther’s 
side,  who  had  taken  his  usual  place  on  the  sofa. 

. “ Have  you  brought  nothing  to  read?  ” she  inquired.  He 

had  nothing.  “ There  in  my  drawer,”  she  continued,  “ you 
will  find  your  own  translation  of  some  of  the  songs  of  Ossian. 
I have  not  yet  read  them,  as  I have  still  hoped  to  hear  jmu 
recite  them ; but,  for  some  time*  past,  I have  not  been  able 
to  accomplish  such  a wish.”  He  smiled,  and  went  for  the 
manuscript,  which  he  took  w'ith  a shudder.  He  sat  down  ; 
and,  with  eyes  full  of  tears,  he  began  to  read. 

“ Star  of  descending  night ! fair  is  thy  light  in  the  west ! 
thou  liftest  thjr  unshorn  head  from  thy  cloud  ; thy  steps  are 
stately  on  thy  hill.  WTiat  dost  thou  behold  in  the  plain? 
The  stormy  winds  are  laid.  The  murmur  of  the  torrent 
comes  from  afar.  Roaring  waves  climb  the  distant  rock. 
The  flies  of  evening  are  on  their  feeble  wings  : the  hum  of 
their  course  is  on  the  field.  What  dost  thou  behold,  fair 
light?  But  thou  dost  smile  and  depart.  The  waves  come 
with  joy  around  thee  : they  bathe  thy  lovely  hair.  Farewell, 
thou  silent  beam ! Let  the  light  of  Ossian’ s soul  arise  ! 


96 


SOllllOWS  OF  WERTHER. 


‘ ‘ And  it  does  arise  iu  its  streugtli ! I behold  my  departed 
friends.  Their  gathering  is  on  Lora,  as  iu  the  days  of  other 
j^ears.  Fingal  comes  like  a watery  column  of  mist ! his 
heroes  are  around : and  see  the  bards  of  song,  gray- haired 
Ullin  ! stately  Ryno ! Alpin  with  the  tuneful  voice  ! the  soft 
complaint  of  Minona ! How  are  ye  changed,  my  friends, 
since  the  days  of  Selma’s  feast ! when  we  contended,  like 
gales  of  spring  as  they  fly  along  the  hill,  and  bend  by  turns 
tlie  feebly-whistling  grass. 

“Minona  came  forth  in  her  beauty,  with  downcast  look 
and  tearful  eye.  Her  hair  was  flying  slowly  with  the  blast 
that  rushed  unfrequent  from  the  hill.  The  souls  of  the  heroes 
were  sad  when  she  raised  the  tuneful  voice.  Oft  had  the}’ 
seen  the  grave  of  Salgar,  the  dark  dwelling  of  white-bosomed 
Colma.  Colma  left  alone  on  the  hill  with  all  her  voice  of 
song ! Salgar  promised  to  come : but  the  night  descended 
around.  Hear  the  voice  of  Colma,  when  she  sat  alone  on 
the  hill ! 

“ Colma.  It  is  night:  I am  alone,  forlorn  on  the  hill  of 
storms.  The  wind  is  heard  on  the  mountain.  The  torrent 
is  howling  down  the  rock.  No  hut  receives  me  from  the 
rain  : forlorn  on  the  hill  of  winds  ! 

“ Rise  moon  ! from  behind  thy  clouds.  Star’s  of  the  night, 
arise ! Lead  me,  some  light,  to  the  place  where  my  love 
rests  from  the  chase  alone ! His  bow  near  him  unstrung, 
his  dogs  panting  around  him  ! But  here  I must  sit  alone  by 
the  rock  of  the  mossy  stream.  The  stream  and  the  wind  roar  . 
aloud.  I hear  not  the  voice  of  my  love  I Why  delays  my 
Salgar ; why  the  chief  of  the  hill  his  promise  ? Here  is  the 
rock  and  here  the  tree ! here  is  the  roaring  stream  ! Thou 
didst  promise  with  night  to  be  here.  Ah ! whither  is  my 
Salgar  gone  ? With  thee  I would  fly  from  my  father,  with 
thee  from  my  brother  of  pride.  Our  race  have  long  been 
foes  : we  are  not  foes,  O Salgar ! 

“Cease  a little  while,  O wind!  stream,  be  thou  silent  a 
while  ! let  my  voice  be  heard  around  ! let  my  wanderer  hear 
me  ! Salgar ! it  is  Colma  who  calls.  Here  is  the  tree  and 
the  rock.  Salgar,  my  love,  I am  here  ! Why  delayest  thou 
thy  coming?  Lo  ! the  calm  moon  comes  forth.  The  flood 
is  bright  in  the  A’ale.  The  rocks  are  gray  on  the  steep.  I 
see  him  not  on  the  brow.  His  dogs  come  not  before  him 
with  tidings  of  his  near  approach.  Here  I must  sit  alone ! 

“Who  lie  on  the  heath  beside  me?  Are  tliey  my  love 
and  my  brother?  Speak  to  me,  0 my  friends!  To  Colma 


SORROAYS  OF  AVERTIIER. 


97 


they  give  no  reply.  Speak  to  mo:  I am  alone  ! My  soul  is 
tormented  with  fears.  Ah,  they  are  dead ! Their  swords 
are  red  from  the  fight.  O my  brother ! my  brother ! why 
hast  thou  slain  my  Salgar?  Why,  O Salgar ! hast  thou  slain 
my  brother  ? Dear  were  ye  both  to  me  ! what  shall  I say  in 
your  praise  ? Thou  wert  fair  on  the  hill  among  thousands  ! 
he  was  terrible  in  fight ! Speak  to  me  ! hear  my  voice  ! hear 
me,  sons  of  my  love ! They  are  silent ! silent  forever ! 
Cold,  cold,  are  their  breasts  of  clay ! Oh,  from  the  rock  on 
the  hill,  from  the  top  of  the  windy  steep,  speak,  ye  ghosts 
of  the  dead  ! Speak,  I will  not  be  afraid  ! Whither  are  ye 
gone  to  rest?  In  what  cave  of  the  hill  shall  I find  the  de- 
parted? No  feeble  voice  is  on  the  gale:  no  answer  half 
drowned  in  the  storm  ! 

“ I sit  in  my  grief : I wait  for  morning  in  my  tears  ! Rear 
the  tomb,  ye  friends  of  the  dead.  Close  it  not  till  Colma 
come.  My  life  flies  away  like  a dream.  Why  should  I stay 
behind?  Here  shall  I rest  with  my  friends,  by  the  stream 
of  the  sounding  rock.  When  night  comes  on  the  hill  — when 
the  loud  winds  arise,  my  ghost  shall  stand  in  the  blast,  and 
mourn  the  death  of  mj^  friends.  The  hunter  shall  hear  from 
his  booth ; he  shall  fear,  but  love  my  voice ! For  sweet 
shall  my  voice  be  for  my  friends  : pleasant  were  her  friends 
to  Colma. 

“ Such  was  thy  song,  Minona,  softly-blushing  daughter  of 
Torman.  Our  tears  descended  for  Colma,  and  our  souls 
were  sad ! Ullin  came  with  his  harp  ; he  gave  the  song  of 
Alpin.  The  voice  of  Alpin  was  pleasant,  the  soul  of  Ryno 
was  a beam  of  fire ! But  they  had  rested  in  the  narrow 
house  : their  voice  had  ceased  in  Selma  ! Ullin  had  returned 
one  day  from  the  chase  before  the  heroes  fell.  He  heard 
their  strife  on  the  hill : their  song  was  soft,  but  sad  ! They 
mourned  the  fall  of  Morar,  first  of  mortal  men ! His  soul 
was  like  the  soul  of  Fingal : his  sword  like  the  sword  of 
Oscar.  But  he  fell,  and  his  father  mourned : his  sister’s 
eyes  were  full  of  tears.  Minona’s  eyes  were  full  of  tears, 
the  sister  of  car-borne  Morar.  She  retired  from  the  song  of 
Ullin,  like  the  moon  in  the  west,  when  she  foresees  the 
shower,  and  hides  her  fair  head  in  a cloud.  I touched  the 
harp  with  Ullin  ; the  song  of  mourning  rose  ! 

“ Ryno.  The  wind  and  the  rain  are  past,  calm  is  the  noon 
of  day.  The  clouds  are  divided  in  heaven.  Over  the  green 
hills  flies  the  inconstant  sun.  Red  through  the  stony  vale 
comes  down  the  stream  of  the  hill.  Sweet  are  thy  murmurs, 


98 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


0 stream  ! but  more  sweet  is  the  voice  I hear.  It  is  the  voice 
of  Alpiii,  the  son  of  song,  mourning  for  the  dead  ! Bent  is 
his  head  of  age : red  his  tearful  eye.  Alpiu,  thou  son  of 
song,  why  alone  on  the  silent  hill?  why  complainest  thou,  as 
a blast  in  the  wood  — as  a wave  on  the  lonely  shore  ? 

“ Alpin.  My  tears,  O Ryno  ! are  for  the  dead  — my  voice 
for  those  that  have  passed  away.  Tall  thou  art  on  the  hill ; 
fair  among  the  sons  of  the  vale.  But  thou  shalt  fall  like 
Morar : the  mourner  shall  sit  on  thy  tomb.  The  hills  shall 
know  thee  no  more  : thy  bow  shall  lie  in  thy  hall  unstning  ! 

“Thou  wert  swift,  O Morar!  as  a roe  on  the  desert: 

I terrible  as  a -meteor  of  fire.  Thy  wrath  was  as  the  stonn. 

Thy  sword  in  battle  as  lightning  in  the  field.  Thy  voice  was 
’ a stream  after  rain,  like  thunder  on  distant  hills.  Manj^ 
fell  by  thy  arm : they  were  consumed  in  the  flames  of  thy 
i wrath.  But  when  thou  didst  return  from  war,  how  peaceful 
I was  thy  brow.  Thy  face  was  like  the  sun  after  rain  : like 
' the  moon  in  the  silence  of  night : calm  as  the  breast  of  the 
lake  when  the  loud  wind  is  laid. 

“Narrow  is  thy  dwelling  now!  dark  the  place  of  thine 
abode  ! With  three  steps  I compass  thy  grave,  O thou  who 
wast  so  great  before ! Four  stones,  with  their  heads  of 
moss,  are  the  onl}’  memorial  of  thee.  A tree  with  scarce  a 
leaf,  long  grass  which  whistles  in  the  wind,  mark  to  the 
hunter’s  eye  the  grave  of  the  mighty  Morar.  Morar ! thou 
art  low  indeed.  Thou  hast  no  mother  to  mourn  thee,  no 
maid  with  her  tears  of  love.  Dead  is  she  that  brought  thee 
forth.  Fallen  is  the  daughter  of  Morglau. 

“Who  on  his  staff  is  this?  Who  is  this  whose  head  is 
white  with  age,  whose  e3'es  are  red  with  tears,  who  quakes 
at  every  step  ? It  is  th}’  father,  O Morar ! the  father  of  no 
son  but  thee.  He  heard  of  thy  fame  in  war,  he  heard  of 
foes  dispersed.  He  heard  of  Morar’s  renown,  wh}"  did  he 
not  hear  of  his  wound?  Weep,  thou  father  of  3Iorar ! 
Weep,  but  thy  son  heareth  thee  not.  Deep  is  the  sleep  of 
the  dead,  — low  their  pillow  of  dust.  No  more  shall  he  hear 
thy  voice,  — no  more  awake  at  thy  call.  When  shall  it  be 
morn  in  the  grave,  to  bid  the  shunberer  awake?  Farewell, 
thou  bravest  of  men  ! thou  conqueror  in  the  field ! but  the 
field  shall  see  thee  no  more,  nor  the  dark  wood  be  lightened 
with  the  splendor  of  thj’  steel.  Thou  hast  left  no  son.  The 
song  shall  preserve  thy  name.  Future  times  shall  hear  of 
thee  — thej^  shall  hear  of  the  fallen  Morar  ! 

“The  grief  of  aU  arose,  but  most  the  bursting  sigh  of 


SORROWS  OF  WERTIIER. 


99 


Ai'min.  He  remembers  the  death  of  his  son,  who  fell  in  the 
days  of  his  youth.  CaiTnor  was  near  the  hero,  the  chief  of 
the  echoing  Galmal.  Why  burst  the  sigh  of  Armin?  he 
said.  Is  there  a cause  to  mourn  ? The  song  comes  with  its 
music  to  melt  and  please  the  soul.  It  is  like  soft  mist  that, 
rising  from  a lake,  pours  on  the  silent  vale  ; the  green  flowers 
are  fllled  with  dew,  but  the  sun  returns  in  his  strength,  and 
the  mist  is  gone.  Why  art  thou  sad,  O Ai-miu,  chief  of  sea- 
surrounded  Gorma? 

“ Sad  I am  ! nor  small  is  my  cause  of  woe  ! Carmor,  thou 
has  lost  no  son ; thou  hast  lost  no  daughter  of  beauty. 
Colgar  the  valiant  lives,  and  Annira,  fairest  maid.  The 
boughs  of  thy  house  ascend,  O Carmor ! but  Armin  is  the 
last  of  his  race.  Dark  is  thy  bed,  O Daura  ! deep  thy  sleep 
in  the  tomb ! When  shalt  thou  wake  with  thy  songs  ? — 
with  all  thy  voice  of  music  ? 

“Arise,  winds  of  autumn,  arise:  blow  along  the  heath. 
Streams  of  the  mountains,  roar  ; roar,  tempests  in  the  groves 
of  my  oaks  ! Walk  through  broken  clouds,  O moon  ! show 
thy  pale  face  at  intervals  ; bring  to  my  mind  the  night  when 
all  my  children  fell,  when  Arindal  the  mighty  fell  — when 
Daura  the  lovely  failed.  Daura,  my  daughter,  thou  wert 
fair,  fair  as  the  moon  on  Fura,  white  as  the  driven  snow, 
sweet  as  the  breathing  gale.  Arindal,  thy  bow  was  strong, 
thy  spear  was  swift  on  the  field,  thy  look  was  like  mist  on 
the  wave,  thy  shield  a red  cloud  in  a storm ! Armar,  re- 
nowned in  war,  came  and  sought  Daura’ s love.  He  was  not 
long  refused  : fair  was  the  hope  of  their  friends. 

“ Erath,  son  of  Odgal,  repined  : his  brother  had  been  slain 
by  Armar.  He  came  disguised  like  a son  of  the  sea : fair 
was  his  cliff  on  the  wave,  white  his  locks  of  age,  calm  his 
serious  brow.  Fairest  of  women,  he  said,  lovely  daughter 
of  Armin  ! a rock  not  distant  in  the  sea  bears  a tree  on  its 
side : red  shines  the  fruit  afar.  There  Armar  waits  for 
Daura.  I come  to  carry  his  love  ! she  went  — she  called  on 
Armar.  Nought  answered,  but  the  son  of  the  rock.  Ai-mar, 
my  love,  my  love!  why  tormentest  thou  me  with  fear? 
Hear,  son  of  Arnart,  hear ! it  is  Daura  who  calleth  thee. 
Erath,  the  traitor,  fled  laughing  to  the  land.  She  lifted  up 
her  voice  — she  called  for  her  brother  and  her  father. 
Arindal  I Armin  ! none  to  relieve  you,  Daura. 

“Her  voice  came  over  the  sea.  Arindal,  my  son,  de- 
scended from  the  hill,  rough  in  the  spoils  of  the  chase.  His 
arrows  rattled  by  his  side  ; his  bow  was  in  his  hand,  five 


100 


SORROWS  OF  WERTIIER. 


dark-gray  dogs  attended  his  steps.  He  saw  fierce  Erath  on 
the  shore  ; he  seized  and  bound  him  to  an  oak.  Thick  wind 
the  thongs  of  the  hide  around  his  limbs  ; he  loads  the  winds 
with  his’groans.  Arindal  ascends  the  deep  in  his  boat  to 
bring  Daura  to  land.  Armar  came  in  his  wrath,  and  let  fly 
the  gray-feathered  shaft.  It  sung,  it  sunk  in  thy  heart,  O 
Arindal,  my  son  ! for  Erath  the  traitor  thou  diest.  The  oar 
is  stopped  at  once : he  panted  on  the  rock,  and  expired. 
What  is  thy  g,rief,  O Daura,  when  round  thy  feet  is  poured 
thy  brother’s  blood.  The  boat  is  broken  in  twain.  Armar 
plunges  into  the  sea  to  rescue  his  Daura,  or  die.  Sudden  a 
blast  from  a hill  came  over  the  waves  ; he  sank,  and  he  rose 
no  more. 

“Alone,  on  the  sea-beat  rock,  my  daughter  was  heard  to 
complain  ; frequent  and  loud  were  her  cries.  What  could 
her  father  do?  All  night  I stood  on  the  shore:  I saw  her 
by  the  faint  beam  of  the  moon.  All  night  I heard  her  cries. 
Loud  was  the  wind  ; the  rain  beat  hard  on  the  hill.  Before 
morning  appeared,  her  voice  was  weak  ; it  died  away  like 
the  evening  breeze  among  the  grass  of  the  rocks.  Spent 
with  grief,  she  expired,  and  left  thee,  Armin,  alone.  Gone 
is  my  strength  in  war,  fallen  my  pride  among  women. 
When  the  storms  aloft  arise,  when  the  north  lifts  the  wave 
on  high,  1 sit  by  the  sounding  shore,  and  look  on  the  fatal 
rock. 

“ Often  by  the  setting  moon  I see  the  ghosts  of  my  chil- 
dren ; half  viewless  they  walk  in  mournful  conference 
together.  ’ ’ 

A torrent  of  tears  which  streamed  from  Charlotte’s  eyes, 
and  gave  relief  to  her  bursting  heart,  stopped  Werther’s 
recitation.  He  threw  down  the  book,  seized  her  hand,  and 
wept  bitterly.  Charlotte  leaned  upon  her  hand,  and  buried 
her  face  in  her  haudlverchief : the  agitation  of  both  was  ex- 
cessive. They  felt  that  their  own  fate  was  pictured  in  the 
misfortunes  of  Ossian’s  heroes, — the}"  felt  tliis  together, 
and  their  tears  redoubled.  Werther  supported  his  forehead 
on  Chailotte’s  arm  : she  trembled,  she  wished  to  be  gone ; 
but  sorrow  and  sympathy  lay  like  a leaden  weight  upon  her 
soul.  She  recovered  herself  shortly,  and  begged  Werther, 
with  broken  sobs,  to  leave  her, — implored  him  with  the 
utmost  earnestness  to  comply  with  her  request.  He  trem- 
bled; his  heart  was  ready  to  burst:  then,  taking  up  the 
book  again,  he  recommenced  reading,  in  a voice  broken  by 
sobs. 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


101 


“ Why  dost  thou  waken  me,  0 spring?  Thy  voice  woos 
me,  exclaiming,  I refresh  thee  with  heavenly  dews  ; but  the 
time  of  mj"  decay  is  approaching,  the  storm  is  nigh  that 
shall  wither  my  leaves.  To-morrow  the  traveller  shall  come, 
— he  shall  come,  who  beheld  me  in  beauty:  his  eye  shall 
seek  me  in  the  field  around,  but  he  shall  not  find  me.” 

The  whole  force  of  these  words  fell  upon  the  unfortunate 
Werther.  Full  of  despair,  he  threw  himself  at  Charlotte’s 
feet,  seized  her  hands,  and  pressed  them  to  his  eyes  and  to 
his  forehead.  An  apprehension  of  his  fatal  project  now 
struck  her  for  the  first  time.  Her  senses  were  bewildered  : 
she  held  his  hands,  pressed  them  to  her  bosom  ; and,  leaning 
towards  him  with  emotions  of  the  tenderest  pity,  her  warm 
cheek  touched  his.  They  lost  sight  of  eveiy  thing.  The 
world  disappeared  from  their  eyes.  He  clasped  her  in  his 
arms,  strained  her  to  his  bosom,  and  covered  her  trembling 
lips  with  passionate  kisses.  “Werther!”  she  cried  with  a 
faint  voice,  turning  herself  awa}^ ; “Werther!”  and,  with 
a feeble  hand,  she  pushed  him  from  her.  At  length,  with 
the  firm  voice  of  virtue,  she  exclaimed,  “Werther!”  He 
resisted  not,  but,  tearing  himself  from  her  arms,  fell  on  his 
knees  before  her.  Charlotte  rose,  and,  with  disordered  grief, 
in  mingled  tones  of  love  and  resentment,  she  exclaimed, 
“ It  is  the  last  time,  Werther  ! You  shall  never  see  me  any 
more  ! ” Then,  casting  one  last,  tender  look  upon  her  unfor- 
tunate lover,  she  rushed  into  the  adjoining  room,  and  locked 
the  door.  Werther  held  out  his  arms,  but  did  not  dare  to 
detain  her.  He  contined  on  the  ground,  with  his  head  rest- 
ing on  the  sofa,  for  half  an  hour,  till  he  heard  a noise  which 
brought  him  to  his  senses.  The  servant  entered.  He  then 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  ; and,  when  he  was  again  left 
alone,  he  went  to  Charlotte’s  door,  and,  in  a low  voice,  said, 
“ Charlotte,  Charlotte  ! but  one  word  more,  one  last  adieu  ! ” 
She  returned  no  answer.  He  stopped,  and  listened  and 
entreated ; but  all  was  silent.  At  length  he  tore  himself 
from  the  place,  crying,  “ Adieu,  Charlotte,  adieu  forever  ! ” 
Werther  ran  to  the  gate  of  the  town.  The  guards,  w'ho 
knew  him,  let  him  pass  in  silence.  The  night  was  dark  and 
storm Yj. — it  rained  and  snowed.  He  reached  his  own  door 
about  eleven.  His  servant,  although  seeing  him  enter  the 
house  without  his  hat,  did  not  venture  to  say  any  thing  ; 
and,  as  he  undressed  his  master,  he  found  that  his  clothes 
were  wet.  His  hat  was  afterwards  found  on  the  point  of  a 
rock  overhanging  the  valley  ; and  it  is  inconceivable  how  he 


102 


SORROWS  OF  AVERTHJRl. 


could  have  climbed  to  the  summit  on  such  a dark,  tempest- 
uous uight  without  losing  his  life. 

He  retired  to  bed,  and  slept,  to  a late  hour.  The  next 
morning  his  servant,  upon  being  called  to  bring  his  coffee, 
found  him  writing.  He  was  adding,  to  Charlotte,  what  we 
hero  annex. 

“For  the  last,  last  time,  I open  tliese  eyes.  Ala.s  ! they 
will  behold  the  sun  no  more.  It  is  covered  by  a thick, 
impenetrable  cloud.  Yes,  Nature  ! put  on  mourning ; your 
child,  your  friend,  j'our' lover,  draws  near  his  end  ! This 
thought,  Charlotte,  is  wifliout  parallel ; and  yet  it  seems 
like  a mysterious  dream  when  I repeat — this  is  my  last  day  ! 
The  last ! Charlotte,  no  word  can  adequatel}’  express  this 
thought.  The  last ! To-day  I stand  erect  in  all  my  strength 
; — to-morrow,  cold  and  stark,  I shall  lie  extended  upon  the 
ground.  To  die!  What  is  death?  We  do  but  dream  in 
our  discourse  upon  it.  1 have  seen  many  human  beings  die  ; 
but,  so  straitened  is  our  feeble  nature,  we  have  no  clear  con- 
ception of  the  beginning  or  the  end  of  our  existence.  At 
this  moment  I am  my  own  — or  rather  I am  thine,  thine,  my 
adored!  — and  the  next  we  are  parted,  severed  — perhaps 
forever  ! No,  Charlotte,  no  ! How  can  I,  how  can  you,  be 
annihilated?  We  exist.  What  is  annihilation?  A mere 
word,  an  unmeaning  sound  that  fixes  no  impression  on  the 
mind.  Dead,  Charlotte!  laid  in  the  cold  earth,  in  the  dark 
and  narrow  grave  ! I had  a friend  once  who  was  every  thing 
to  me  in  early  youth.  She  died.  I followed  her  hearse  : I 
stood  by  her  grave  when  the  coffin  was  lowered  ; and  when 
I heard  the  creaking  of  the  cords  as  they  were  loosened  and 
drawn  up,  when  the  first  shovelful  of  earth  was  thrown  in, 
and  the  coffin  returned  a hollow  sound,  which  grew  fainter 
and  fainter  till  all  was  completely  covered  over,  I threw 
myself  on  the  ground ; my  heart  was  smitten,  grieved,  shat- 
tered, rent  — but  I neither  knew  what  had  happened,  nor 
what  was  to  happen  to  me.  Death  ! the  grave  ! I under- 
stand not  the  words.  — Forgive,  oh  forgive  me  ! Yester- 
day— ah,  that  day  should  have  been  the  last  of  my  life! 
Thou  angel!  — for  the  first  — first  time  in  my  existence.  I 
felt  rapture  glow  within  my  inmost  soul.  She  loves,  she 
lo\:es_me ! Still  burns  upon  my  lips  the  sacred  fire  they 
received  from  thine.  New  torrents  of  delight  overwhelm 
my  soul.  Forgive  me,  oh  forgive  ! 

“I  knew  that  I was  dear  to  you;  I saw  it  iu  your  first 
entrancing  look,  knew  it  by  the  first  pressure  of  your  hand ; 


SORROWS  OF  AVERTHER. 


103 


but  when  I was  absent  from  you,  when  I saw  Albert  at  your 
side,  my  doubts  and  fears  returned. 

“Do  you  remember  the  flowers^  you  sent  me,  when,  at 
that  crowded  assemblj",  yoiT'couid  neither  speak  nor  extend 
your  hand  to  me  ? Half  the  night  I was  on  my  knees  l)efore 
those  flowers,  and  I regarded  them  as  the  pledges  of  your 
love  ; but  those  impressions  grew  fainter,  and  were  at  length 
effaced. 

“Every  thing  passes  away;  but  a whole  eternity  could 
not  extinguish  the  living  flame  which  was  yesterdaj^  kindled 
by  your  lips,  and  which  now  burns  within  me.  She  loves 
me ! These  arms  have  encircled  her  waist,  these  lips  have 
trembled  upon  hers.  She  is  mine ! Yes,  Charlotte,  you  are 
mine  forever ! 

“ And  what  do  they  mean  by  saying  Albert  is  your  hus- 
band ? He  may  be  so  for  this  world  ; and  in  this  world  it 
is  a sin  to  love  you,  to  wish  to  tear  you  from  his  embrace. 
Yes,  it  is  a crime ; and  I suffer  the  punishment,  but  I have 
enjoyed  the  full  delight  of  my  sin.  I have  inhaled  a balm 
tha,t  has  revived  my  soul.  From  this  hour  you  are  mine  ; 
yes,  Charlotte,  you  are  mine ! I go  before  you.  I go  to 
my  Father  and  to  your  Father.  I will  pour  out  m3’  sorrows 
before  him,  and  he  will  give  me  comfort  till  3’ou  arrive. 
Then  will  I fl}’  to  meet  3’ou.  I will  claim  you,  and  remain 
in  your  eternal  embrace,  in  the  presence  of  the  Almight}’. 

“I  do  not  dream,  I do"  not  rave.  Drawing  nearer  to  the 
grave  my  perceptions  become  clearer.  AVe  shall  exist ; we 
shall  see  each  other  again  ; we  shall  behold  3’our  mother ; I 
shall  behold  her,  and  expose  to  her  1113’  inmost  heart.  Yom’ 
mother  — 3’our  image  ! ’ ’ 

About  eleven  o’clock  AA^erther  asked  his  servant  if  Albert 
had  returned.  He  answered,  “ Yes  ; for  he  had  seen  him 
pass  on  horseback : upon  which  AA'‘erther  sent  him  the  fol- 
lowing note,  unsealed  : — 

“Be  so  good  as  to  lend  me  3’our  pistols  for  a journey. 
Adieu.’’ 

Charlotte  had  slept  little  during  the  past  night.  All  her 
apprehensions  were  realized  in  a wa3’  that  she  could  neither 
foresee  nor  avoid.  Her  blood  was  boiling  in  her  veins,  and  a 
thousand  painful  sensations  rent  her  pure  heart.  AAAs  it  the 
ardor  of  AYerther’s  passionate  embraces  that  she  felt  within 
her  bosom?  AA^'as  it  anger  at  his  daring?  AAAs  it  the  sad 
comparison  of  her  present  condition  with  former  days  of 
innocence,  tranquillity,  and  self-confldeiice?  How  could  she 


104 


SORROWS  OF  AVERTIIER. 


approach  her  husband,  and  confess  a scene  which  she  had 
no  reason  to  conceal,  and  which  she  yet  felt,  nevertheless, 
unwilling  to  avow  ? The}'  had  preserved  so  long  a silence 
towards  each  other  — and  should  she  be  the  first  to  break  it 
by  so  unexpected  a discovery?  She  feared  that  the  mere 
statement  of  AVerther’s  visit  would  trouble  him,  and  his  dis- 
tress would  be  heightened  liy  her  perfect  candor.  She  wished 
that  he  could  see  her  in  her  true  light,  and  judge  her  without 
prejudice  ; but  was  she  anxious  that  he  should  read  her  in- 
most soul?  On  the  other  hand,  could  she  deceive  a being 
to  whom  all  her  thoughts  had  ever  been  exposed  as  clearly 
as  crystal,  and  from  Avhom  no  sentiment  had  ever  been  con- 
cealed? These  reflections  made  her  anxious  and  thoughtful. 
Her  mind  still  dwelt  on  AA^erther,  who  was  now  lost  to  her, 
l)ut  whom  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  resign,  and  for 
whom  she  knew  nothing  was  left  but  despair  if  she  should 
be  lost  to  him  forever. 

A recollection  of  that  mysterious  estrangement  which  had 
lately  subsisted  between  herself  and  Albert,  and  which  she 
could  never  thoroughly  understand,  was  now  beyond  measure 
painful  toJier.  Even  the  prudent  and  the  good  have,  before 
now,  hesitated  to  explain  their  mutual  differences,  and  have 
dwelt  in  silence  upon  their  imaginary  grievances,  until  cir- 
cumstances have  become  so  entangled,  that  in  that  critical 
juncture,  when  a calm  explanation  would  have  saved  all 
parties,  an  understanding  was  impossible.  And  thus  if 
domestic  confidence  had  been  earlier  established  between 
them,  if  love  and  kind  forbearance  had  mutually  animated 
and  expanded  their  hearts,  it  might  not,  perhaps,  even  yet 
have  been  too  late  to  save  our  friend. 

But  we  must  not  forget  one  remarkable  circumstance.  A\'e 
may  observe  from  the  character  of  AA'erther’s  correspondence, 
that  he  had  never  affected  to  conceal  his  anxious  desire  to 
quit  this  world.  He  had  often  discussed  the  subject  with 
Albert ; and,  between  the  latter  and  Charlotte,  it  had  not 
unfrequently  formed  a topic  of  conversation.  Albert  was 
so  opposed  to  the  very  idea  of  such  an  action,  that,  with  a 
degree  of  irritation  unusual  in  him.  he  had  more  than  once 
given  AA'erther  to  understand  that  he  doubted  the  seriousness 
of  his  threats,  and  not  only  turned  them  into  ridicule,  but 
caused  Charlotte  to  share  his  feelings  of  incredulity.  Her 
heart  was  thus  tranquillized  when  she  felt  disposed  to  view 
the  melancholy  subject  in  a serious  point  of  view,  though 
she  never  communicated  to  her  husband  the  apprehensions 
she  sometimes  experienced. 


SORROWS  OF  WERT?IER. 


105 


Albert,  upon  his  return,  was  received  by  Charlotte  with 
ill-concealed  embarrassment.  He  was  himself  out  of  humor : 
his  business  was  unfinished ; and  he  had  just  discovered  that 
the  neighboring  official,  with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  was  an 
obstinate  and  narrow-minded  personage.  Many  things  had 
occul-red  to  irritate  him. 

He  inquired  whether  any  thing  had  happened  during  his 
absence,  and  Charlotte  hastily  answered  that  Werther  had 
been  there  on  the  evening  previously.  He  then  inquired  for 
his  letters,  and  was  answered  that  several  packages  had 
been  left  in  his  study.  He  thereon  retired,  leaving  Charlotte 
alone. 

The  presence  of  the  being  she  loved  and  honored  pro- 
duced a new  impression  on  her  heart.  The  recollection  of 
his  generosity,  kindness,  and  affection  had  calmed  her 
agitation : a secret  impulse  prompted  her  to  follow  him ; 
she  took  her  work  and  went  to  liis  study,  as  was  often  her 
custom.  He  was  busily  employed  opening  and  reading  his 
letters.  It  seemed  as  if  the  contents  of  some  were  disagree- 
able. She  asked  some  questions : he  gave  short  answers, 
and  sat  down  to  write. 

Several  hours  passed  in  this  manner,  and  Charlotte’s 
feelings  became  more  and  more  melancholy.  She  felt  the 
extreme  difficulty  of  explaining  to  her  husband,  under  any 
circumstances,  the  weight  that  lay  upon  her  heart ; and  her 
depression  became  every  moment  greater,  in  proportion  as 
she  endeavored  to  hide  her  grief,  and  to  conceal  lier  tears. 

The  arrival  of  Werther’ s servant  occasioned  her  the  great- 
est embarrassment.  He  gave  Albert  a note,  which  the  latter 
coldly  handed  to  his  wife,  saying,  at  the  same  time,  “Give 
him  the  pistols.  I wish  him  a pleasant  journey,’’  he  added, 
turning  to  the  servant.  These  words  fell  upon  Charlotte  like 
a thunderstroke : she  rose  from  her  seat  half-fainting,  and 
unconscious  of  what  she  did.  She  walked  mechanically 
towards  the  wall,  took  down  the  pistols  with  a trembling- 
hand,  slowly  wiped  the  dust  from  them,  and  would  have 
delayed  longer,  had  not  Albert  hastened  her  movements  by 
an  impatient  look.  She  then  delivered  the  fatal  weapons  to 
the  servant,  without  being  able  to  utter  a word.  As  soon 
as  he  had  departed,  she  folded  up  her  work,  and  retired  at 
once  to  her  room,  her  heart  overcome  with  the  most  fearful 
forebodings.  She  anticipated  some  dreadful  calamity.  She 
was  at  one  moment  on  the  point  of  going  to  her  husband, 
throwing  herself  at  his  feet,  and  acquainting  him  -ndth  all 


106 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


that  had  happened  on  the  previous  evening,  that  she  might 
acknowledge  her  fault,  and  explain  her  apprehensions  ; then 
she  saw  that  such  a step  would  be  useless,  as  she  would 
certainly  be  unable  to  induce  Albert  to  visit  Werther.  Din- 
ner was  served  ; and  a kind  friend  whom  she  had  persuaded 
to  remain  assisted  to  sustain  the  conversation,  which  was 
carried  on  by  a sort  of  compulsion,  till  the  events  of  the 
morning  were  forgotten. 

When  the  servant  brought  the  pistols  to  Werther,  the 
latter  received  them  with  transports  of  delight  upon  hearing 
that  Charlotte  had  given  them  to  him  with  her  own  hand. 
He  ate  some  bread,  drank  some  wine,  sent  his  servant  to 
dinner,  and  then  sat  down  to  write  as  follows : — 

“They  have  been  in  your  hands  — you  wiped  the  dust 
from  them.  I kiss  them  a thousand  times  — you  have 
touched  them.  Yes,  Heaven  favors  my  design  — and  you, 
Charlotte,  provide  me  with  the  fatal  instniments.  It  was 
my  desire  to  receive  my  death  from  }'our  hands,  and  my  wish 
is  gratified.  I have  made  inquiries  of  my  servant.  You 
trembled  when  you  gave  him  the  pistols,  but  you  bade  me 
no  adieu.  Wretched,  wretched  that  I am  — not  one  fare- 
well ! How  could  you  shut  j’our  heart  against  me  in  that 
hour  which  makes  you  mine  forever?  O Charlotte,  ages 
cannot  efface  the  impression  — I feel  you  cannot  hate  the 
man  who  so  passionately  loves  you ! ” 

After  dinner  he  called  his  seiwant,  desired  him  to  finish  the 
packing  up,  destroyed  many  papers,  and  then  went  out  to 
pay  some  trifling  debts.  He  soon  returned  home,  then  went 
out  again  notwithstanding  the  rain,  walked  for  some  time  in 
the  count’s  garden,  and  aftemards  proceeded  farther  into 
the  country.  Towards  evening  he  came  back  once  more, 
and  resumed  his  writing. 

“ Wilhelm,  I have  for  the  last  time  beheld  the  mountains, 
the  forests,  and  the  sky.  Farewell!  And  you,  my  dearest 
mother,  forgive  me  1 Console  her,  Wilhelm.  God  bless 
you  ! I have  settled  all  my  affairs  ! Farewell ! We  shall 
meet  again,  and  be  happier  than  ever.” 

“ I have  requited  you  badW,  Albert ; but  you  will  forgive 
me.  I have  disturbed  the  peace  of  your  home.  I have 
sowed  distrust  between  you.  Farewell!  I will  end  all  this 
wretchedness.  And  oh,  that  m3’  death  ma}’  render  3'ou 
happy ! Albert,  Albert ! make  that  angel  happy,  and  the 
Jfllessing  of  Heaven  be  upon  you  ! ” 


SORROWS  OF  WERTIIER. 


107 


He  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  in  arranging  his  papers  : 
he  tore  and  burned  a great  many  ; others  he  sealed  up,  and 
directed  to  Willielm.  They  contained  some  detached  thoughts 
and  maxims,  some  of  which  I have  perused.  At  ten  o’clock 
he  ordered  his  lire  to  be  made  up,  and  a bottle  of  wine  to  be 
brought  to  him.  He  then  dismissed  his  servant,  whose  room, 
as  well  as  the  apartments  of  the  rest  of  the  famih%  was 
situated  in  another  part  of  the  house.  The  seiwant  laj’  down 
without  undressing,  that  he  might  be  the  sooner  ready  for  his 
journey  in  the  morning,  his  master  having  informed  him  that 
the  post-horses  would  be  at  the  door  before  six  o’clock. 

“ Past  eleven  o’clock!  All  is  silent  around  me,  and  my 
soul  is  calm.  I thank  thee,  O God,  that  thou  bestowest 
strength  and  courage  upon  me  in  these  last  moments  ! I 
approach  the  window,  my  dearest  of  friends;  and  through 
the  clouds,  which  are  at  this  moment  driven  rapidly  along  by 
the  impetuous  winds,  I behold  the  stars  which  illumine  the  I 
eternal  heavens.  No,  you  will  not  fall,  celestial  bodies  ; the 
hand  of  the  Almighty  supports  both  3’ou  and  me ! I liave 
looked  for  the  last  time  upon  the  constellation  of  the  Greater 
Bear : it  is  my  favorite  star ; for  when  I bade  you  farewell 
at  night,  Chaylotte,  and  turned  my  steps  from  your  door,  it 
always  shone  upon  me.  With  what  rapture  have  I at  times 
beheld  it ! How  often  have  I implored  it  with  uplifted  hands 
to  witness  my  felicity  ! and  even  still  — But  what  object  is 
there,  Charlotte,  which  fails  to  summon  up  your  image  be- 
fore me  ? Do  you  not  surround  me  on  all  sides  ? and  have  I 
not,  like  a child,  treasured  up  every  trifle  which  you  have 
consecrated  by  your  touch? 

“ Your  profile,  which  was  so  dear  to  me,  I return  to  you  ; 
and  I pray  you  to  preserve  it.  Thousands  of  kisses  have  I 
imprinted  upon  it,  and  a thousand  times  has  it  gladdened 
my  heart  on  departing  from  and  returning  to  my  home. 

“ I have  implored  your  father  to  protect  my  remains.  At 
the  corner  of  the  churchyard,  looking  towards  the  fields,! 
there  are  two  lime-trees — there  I wish  to  lie.  Your  father\ 
can,  and  doubtless  will,  do  thus  much  for  his  friend.  Implore 
it  of  him.  But  perhaps  pious  Christians  will  not  choose  that 
their  bodies  should  be  buried  near  the  corpse  of  a poor,  un- 
happy wretch  like  me.  Then  let  me  be  laid  in  some  remote 
valley,  or  near  the  highway,  where  the  priest  and  Levite  may 
bless  themselves  as  they  pass  by  my  tomb,  whilst  the  Samari- 
tan will  shed  a tear  for  my  fate. 

“ See,  Charlotte,  I dP  not  shudder  to  take  the  cold  and  fatal 


108 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


cup,  from  which  I shall  drink  the  draught  of  death.  Your 
hand  presents  it  to  me,  and  1 do  not  tremble.  All,  all  is 
now  coneluded  : the  wishes  and  the  hopes  of  my  existence 
are  fulfilled.  With  cold,  unflinching  hand  I knock  at  the 
brazen  portals  of  Death. 

Oh,  that  I had  enjoyed  the  bliss  of  dying  for  yon  I how 
gladlj^  would  1 have  sacrificed  myself  for  you.  Chailotte  ! 
And  could  I but  restore  peace  and  joy  to  j’our  bosom,  witli 
wliat  resolution,  with  Avhat  joy,  would  I not  meet  my  fate  ! 
But  it  is  the  lot  of  only  a chosen  few  to  shed  their  blood  for 
their  friends,  and  by  their  death  to  augment,  a thousand 
times,  tlie  happiness  of  those  by  whom  thej’  are  beloved. 

“•  I wish,  Charlotte,  to  be  buried  in  the  dress  I wear  at 
present : it  has  been  rendered  sacred  by  jmur  touch.  I liave 
begged  this  favor  of  your  father.  My  spirit  soars  above  ray 
sepulchre.  I do  not  wish  my  pockets  to  be  searehed.  The 
knot  of  pink  ribbon  which  you  wore  on  your  bosom  the  first 
time  I saw  you,  surrounded  by  the  children  — Oh,  kiss  tliem 
a thousand  times  for  me,  and  tell  them  the  fate  of  their 
unhappy  friend ! I think  I see  them  playing  around  me. 
The  dear  children  ! How  warmly  ha\-e  I been  attached  to 
you,  Charlotte  ! Since  the  first  hour  I saw  you,  how  impos- 
sible have  I found  it  to  leave  you.  This  ribbon  must  be 
buried  with  me  : it  was  a present  from  you  on  my  birthday. 
How  confused  it  all  appears  ! Little  did  I then  think  that  I 
should  journey  this  road.  But  peace  ! I pray  you,  peace  I 

‘‘  They  are  loaded  — the  clock  strikes  twelve.  I say  amen. 
Charlotte,  Charlotte  ! farewell,  farewell ! ” 

A neighbor  saw  the  flash,  and  heard  the  report  of  the 
pistol ; but,  as  every  thing  remained  quiet,  he  thought  no 
more  of  it. 

In  the  morning,  at  six  o’cloek,  the  servant  went  into 
Werther’s  room  with  a candle.  He  found  his  master 
stretehed  upon  the  floor,  weltering  in  his  blood,  and  the 
pistols  at  his  side.  He  called,  he  took  him  in  his  arms,  but 
received  no  answer.  Life  was  not  yet  quite  extinct.  The 
servant  ran  for  a surgeon,  and  then  went  to  fetch  Albert. 
Charlotte  heard  the  ringing  of  the  bell : a cold  shudder  seized 
her.  She  wakened  her  Imsband,  and  they  both  rose.  Tlie 
servant,  bathed  in  tears,  faltered  forth  the  dreadful  news. 
Charlotte  fell  senseless  at  Albert’s  feet. 

When  the  surgeon  came  to  the  unfortunate  'Werther.  he 
was  still  lying  on  the  floor;  and  his  pulse  beat,  but  his  limbs 


K ■ ' f >»  •■■■  > , ?■■  ' 'v^ 


5 


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r 


« 


,.t  V * 


< 


■1 


SORROWS  OF  WERTHER. 


109 


were  cold.  The  bullet,  entering  the  forehead  over  the  right 
eye,  liad  penetrated  the  skull.  A vein  was  opened  in  his 
right  arm  : the  blood  came,  and  he  still  continued  to  breathe. 

From  the  blood  which  flowed  from  the  chair,  it  could  be 
inferred  that  he  had  committed  the  rash  act  sitting  at  ins 
bureau,  and  that  he  afterwards  fell  upon  the  floor.  He  was 
found  lying  on  his  back  near  the  window.  He  was  in  full- 
dress  costume. 

The  house,  the  neighborhood,  and  the  whole  town  were 
immediately  in  commotion.  Albert  arrived.  They  had  laid 
Werther  on  the  bed : his  head  was  bound  up,  and  the  pale- 
ness of  death  was  upon  his  face.  His  limbs  were  motionless  ; 
but  he  still  breathed,  at  one  time  strongly,  then  weaker  — 
his  death  was  momently  expected. 

He  had  drunk  only  one  glass  of  the  wine.  “ Emilia 
Galotti  ” lay  open  upon  his  bureau. 

I shall  say  nothing  of  Albert’s  distress,  or  of  Charlotte’s 
grief. 

The  old  steward  hastened  to  the  house  immediately  upon 
hearing  the  news : he  embraced  his  dying  friend  amid  a 
flood  of  tears.  His  eldest  boys  soon  followed  him  on  foot. 
In  speechless  sorrow  they  threw  themselves  on  their  knees 
by  the  bedside,  and  kissed  his  hands  and  face.  The  eldest, 
who  was  his  favorite,  hung  over  him  till  he  expired  ; and 
even  then  he  was  removed  by  force.  At  twelve  o’clock 
AVerther  breathed  his  last.  The  presence  of  the  steward, 
and  the  precautions  he  had  adopted,  prevented  a disturbance  ; 
and  that  night,  at  the  hour  of  eleven,  he  caused  the  body  to 
be  interred  in  the  place  which  Werther  had  selected  for  him- 
self. 

The  steward  and  his  sons  followed  the  corpse  to  the  grave. 
Albert  was  unable  to  accompany  them.  Charlotte’s  life  was 
despaired  of.  The  body  was  carried  by  laborers.  No  priest 
attended. 


ITS 


('/: 


> .'.  ■ , f. 

■ ■‘■•'t 

..t. 


f’  ■■^- 


ELECTIVE  AEEINITIES. 


PART  I. 

CHAPTER  I. 

Edward  (so  we  shall  call  a wealthy  nobleman  in  the 
prime  of  life)  had  been  spending  several  hours  of  a fine 
April  morning  in  his  nursery-garden,  budding  the  stems  of 
some  young  trees  with  cuttings  which  had  been  recently  sent 
to  him.  He  had  finished  what  he  had  been  about ; and, 
having  laid  his  tools  together  in  them  box,  was  complacently 
surveying  his  work,  when  the  gardener  came  up,  and  compli- 
mented his  master  on  his  industry. 

“'Have  you  seen  my  wife  anywhere?”  inquired  Edward, 
as  he  moved  to  go  away. 

“My  lady  is  alone  yonder  in  the  new  grounds,”  said  the 
man : “ the  summer-house  which  she  has  been  making  on 
the  rock  over  against  the  castle  is  finished  to-day,  and  really 
it  is  beautiful.  It  cannot  fail  to  please  your  grace.  The  view 
from  it  is  perfect,  — the  village  at  your  feet ; a little  to  your 
right  the  church,  with  its  tower,  which  you  can  just  see  over ; 
and  directly  opposite  you  the  castle  and  the  garden.” 

“ Quite  true,”  replied  Edward  : “I  can  see  the  people  at 
work  a few  steps  from  where  I am  standing.” 

“And  then,  to  the  right  of  the  church,  again,”  continued 
the  gardener,  “ is  the  opening  of  the  valley  ; and  you  look 
along  over  a range  of  wood  and  meadow,  far  into  the  dis- 
tance. The  steps  up  the  rock,  too,  are  excellently  ai’ranged. 
M}"  lady  understands  these  things ; it  is  a pleasure  to  woi’k 
under  her  orders.” 


Ill 


112 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


“ Go  to  her,”  said  Edward,  “ and  desire  her  to  be  so  good 
as  to  wait  for  me  there.  Tell  her  I wish  to  see  this  new 
creation  of  hers,  and  enjo}’  it  with  her.” 

The  gardener  went  rapidly  off,  and  Edward  soon  followed. 
Descending  the  terrace,  and  stopping,  as  he  passed,  to  look 
into  the  hot-houses  and  the  forcing-pits,  he  came  presently  to 
the  stream,  and  thence,  over  a narrow  bridge,  to  a place 
where  the  walk  leading  to  the  summer-house  branched  off  in 
two  directions.  One  path  led  across  the  churchyard,  imme- 
diately up  the  face  of  the  rock.  The  other,  into  which  he 
struck,  w'ouiid  awaj'  to  the  left,  with  a more  gradual  ascent, 
through  a pretty  shrubbery.  Where  the  two  paths  joined 
again,  a seat  had  been  made,  where  he  stopped  a few  moments 
to  rest ; and  then,  following  the  now  single  road,  he  found 
himself,  after  scrambling  along  among  steps  and  slopes  of 
all  sorts  and  kinds,  conducted  at  last  through  a narrow, 
more  or  less  steep,  outlet  to  the  summer-house. 

Charlotte  was  standing  at  the  door  to  receive  her  husband. 
She  made  him  sit  down  where,  without  moving,  he  could 
command  a view  of  the  different  landscapes  through  the 
door  and  window,  these  serving  as  frames  in  which  they 
were  set  like  pictures.  Spring  was  coming  on : a rich, 
beautiful  life  would  soon  everywhere  be  bursting ; and 
Edward  spoke  of  it  with  delight. 

“There  is  only  one  thing  which  I should  observe,”  he 
added  : “ the  summer-house  itself  is  rather  small.” 

“It  is  large  enough  for  you  and  me,  at  any  rate,” 
answered  Charlotte. 

“Certainly,”  said  Edward:  “there  is  room  for  a third, 
too,  easily.” 

“Of  course;  and  for  a fourth  also,”  replied  Charlotte. 
“ For  larger  parties  we  can  contrive  other  places.” 

“ Now  that  we  are  here  by  ourselves,  with  no  one  to  dis- 
turb us,  and  in  such  a pleasant  mood,”  said  Edward,  “it  is 
a good  opportunity  for  me  to  tell  you  that  I have  for  some 
time  had  something  on  m3'  mind,  about  which  I have  wished 
to  speak  to  }’ou,  but  have  never  been  able  to  muster  up  m3' 
courage.” 

“ I have  observed  that  there  has  been  something  of  the 
sort,”  said  Charlotte. 

“And  even  now,”  Edward  went  on,  “if  it  were  not  for 
a letter  which  the  post  brought  me  this  morning,  and  which 
obliges  me  to  come  to  some  resolution  to-da3’,  I should  very 
likely  have  still  kept  it  to  myself.” 


ELECTIVE  AFFII\^ITIES. 


113 


“What  is  it?”  asked  Charlotte,  turning  affectionately 
towards  him. 

“It  concerns  our  friend  the  captain,”  answered  Edward: 
“ you  know'  the  unfortunate  position  in  which  he,  lilve  many 
others,  is  placed.  It  is  through  no  fault  of  his  own,  but 
you  may  imagine  how  painful  it  must  be  for  a person  with 
his  knowledge  and  talents  and  accomplishments  to  find  him- 
self without  employment.  I — I will  not  hesitate  any  louge? 
with  what  I am  wishing  for  him  : I should  like  to  have  him 
here  with  us  for  a time.” 

“We  must  think  about  that,”  replied  Charlotte:  “it 
should  be  considered  on  more  sides  than  one.” 

“I  am  quite  ready  to  tell  you  what  I have  in  view,” 
returned  Edward.  “ Through  his  last  letters  there  is  a pre- 
vailing tone  of  despondency, — not  that  he  is  really  in  any 
want:  he  knows  thoroughlj' well  how  to  limit  his  expenses, 
and  I have  taken  care  for  every  thing  absolutely  necessary. 
It  is  no  distress  to  him  to  accept  obligations  from  me : all 
our  lives  we  have  been  in  the  habit  of  borrowing  from  and 
lending  to  each  other ; and  we  could  not  tell,  if  we  would, 
how  our  debtor  and  credit  account  stands.  It  is  being  with- 
out occupation  which  is  really  fretting  him.  The  many  accom- 
plishments which  he  has  cultivated  in  himself  it  is  his  only 
pleasure  — indeed  it  is  his  passion  — to  be  daily  and  hourly 
exercising  for  the  benefit  of  others.  And  now  to  sit  still 
with  his  arms  folded ; or  to  go  on  studying,  acquiring,  and 
acquiring,  when  he  can  make  no  use  of  what  he  already  pos- 
sesses,— my  dear  creature,  it  is  a painful  situation;  and, 
alone  as  he  is,  he  feels  it  doubly  and  trebly.” 

“ But  I thought,”  said  Charlotte,  “ that  he  had  had  offers 
from  many  different  quarters.  I myself  wrote  to  numbers 
of  my  own  friends,  male  and  female,  for  him,  and,  as  I 
have  reason  to  believe,  not  without  effect.” 

“It  is  true,”  replied  Edward;  “but  these  very  offers, 
these  various  proposals,  have  only  caused  him  fresh  embar- 
rassment. Not  one  of  them  is  at  all  suitable  to  such  a 
person  as  he  is.  He  would  have  nothing  to  do  : he  would 
have  to  sacrifice  himself,  his  time,  his  purposes,  his  whole 
method  of  life  ; and  to  that  he  cannot  bring  himself.  The 
more  I think  of  it  all,  the  more  I feel  about  it,  and  the  more 
anxious  I am  to  see  him  here  with  us.” 

“ It  is  very  beautiful  and  amiable  on  your  part,”  answered 
Charlotte,  “to  enter  with  so  much  sympathy  into  your 
friend’s  position  ; only,  you  must  allow  me  to  ask  you  to 
think  of  yourself  and  of  me,  as  well.” 


114 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


“I  have  done  that,”  replied  Edward.  “ For  ourselves, 
we  can  have  nothing  to  expect  from  his  presence  with  us, 
except  pleasure  and  advantage.  I will  say  nothing  of  the 
expense.  In  any  case,  if  he  came  to  us,  it  would  be  but 
small ; and  you  know  he  will  be  of  no  inconvenience  to  us 
at  all.  He  can  have  his  own  rooms  in  the  right  wing  of  the 
castle,  and  every  thing  else  can  be  arranged  as  simply  as 
possible.  What  shall  we  not  be  thus  doing  for  him  ! and 
how  agreeable  and  how  profitable  may  not  his  society  prove 
to  us  ! I have  long  been  wishing  for  a plan  of  the  property 
and  the  grounds.  Fie  will  see  to  it,  and  get  it  made.  You 
intend,  yourself,  to  take  the  management  of  the  estate,  as 
soon  as  our  pi’esent  steward’s  term  is  expired ; and  that,  you 
know,  is  a serious  thing.  His  s arious  information  will  be 
of  immense  benefit  to  us  : I feel  only  too-  acuteh’  how  much 
I require  a person  of  this  kind.  The  countiy  people  have 
knowledge  enough  ; but  their  way  of  imparting  it  is  con- 
fused, and  not  always  honest.  The  students  from  the  towns 
and  universities  are  sufficiently  clever  and  orderly,  but  they 
are  deficient  in  personal  experience. _ From  my  friend.  I can 
promise  myself  both  knowledge  and  method  ; and  hundreds 
of  other  circumstances  I can  easily  conceive  arising,  affect- 
ing you  as  well  as  me.  and  from  which  I can  foresee  innum- 
erable advantages.  Thank  you  for  so  patiently  listening  to 
me.  Now,  do  you  say  what  you  think,  and  say  it  out  freely 
and  fully  : I will  not  interrupt  you.” 

“Very  well,”  replied  Charlotte:  “1  will  begin  at  once 
with  a general  observation.  Men  think  most  of  the  imme- 
diate — the  present ; and  rightl}',  their  calling  being  to  do 
and  to  work.  Women,  on  the  other  hand,  more  of  how 
things  hang  together  in  life : and  that  rightly,  too.  because 
their  destiny  — the  destiny  of  their  families  — is  bound  up 
in  this  interdependence  ; and  it  is  exactly  this  which  it  is  their 
mission  to  promote.  So,  now,  let  us  cast  a glance  at  our 
present  and  our  past  life  ; and  you  will  acknowledge  that 
the  invitation  of  the  captain  does  not  fall  in  so  entirely  with 
our  purposes,  our  plans,  and  our  arrangements.  I will  go 
back  to  those  happy  days  of  our  earliest  intercourse.  V'e 
loved  each  other,  3’oung  as  we  then  were,  with  all  our  hearts. 
We  were  parted : you  from  me  — your  father,  from  an  insa- 
tiable desire  of  wealth,  choosing  to  marry  you  to  an  elderly 
and  rich  lady  ; I from  you,  having  to  give  my  hand,  without 
any  especial  motive,  to  an  excellent  man,  whom  I respected, 
if  I did  not  love.  We  became  again  free  — you  lii'st,  your 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


115 


poor  mother  at  the  same  time  leaving  you  in  possession  of 
' your  large  fortune  ; I later,  just  at  the  time  when  you  re- 
turned from  abroad.  So  we  met  once  more.  We  spoke  of 
the  past ; we  could  enjoy  and  love  the  recollection  of  it ; we 
might  have  been  contented,  in  each  other’s  society,  to  leave 
I things  as  they  were.  You  were  urgent  for  our  marriage.  I 
at  first  hesitated.  We  were  about  the  same  age ; but  I,  as 
a woman,  had  grown  older  than  you  as  a man.  At  last  I 
could  not  refuse  you  what  you  seemed  to  think  the  one  thing 
I you  cared  for.  All  the  discomfort  you  had  ever  experienced, 
at  court,  in  the  army,  or  in  travelling,  you  were  to  recover 
from  at  my  side.  You  would  settle  down,  and  enjoy  life, 
but  only  with  me  for  your  companion.  I placed  my  daughter 
at  a school  where  she  could  be  more  completely  educated  than 
would  be  possible  in  the  retirement  of  the  country  -y  and  I 
‘ placed  my  niece  Ottilie  there  with  her  as  well,  who,  perhaps, 
would  have  grown  up  better  at  home  with  me,  under  my 
own  care.  This  was  done  with  your  consent,  merely  that 
: we  might  have  our  own  lives  to  ourselves,  — merely  that  we 
might  enjoy  undisturbed  our  so-long-wished-for,  so-loug- 
delayed,  happiness.  We  came  here,  and  settled  ourselves. 
I undertook  the  domestic  part  of  the  mmage ; you,  the  out- 
of-doors,  and  the  general  control.  My  own  principle  has 
i been  to  meet  your  wishes  in  every  thing,  to  live  only  for 
i you.  At  least,  let  us  give  ourselves  a fair  trial  how  far  in 
’ this  way  we  can  be  enough  for  one  another.” 

“ Since  the  interdependence  of  things,  as  you  call  it,  is 
I your  especial  element,”  replied  Edward,  “•  one  should  either 
never  listen  to  any  of  your  trains  of  reasoning,  or  make  up 
; one’s  mind  to  allow  you  to  be  in  the  right ; and,  indeed,  you 
j have  been  in  the  right  up  to  the  present  day.  The  founda- 
tion which  we  have  hitherto  been  laying  for  ourselves  is  of 
the  true,  sound  sort ; only,  are  we  to  build  nothing  upon  it? 
is  nothing  to  be  developed  out  of  it?  All  the  woriv  we  have 
done,  — I in  the  garden,  you  in  the  park,  — is  it  all  only  for 
a pair  of  hermits  ? ’ ’ 

“Well,  well,”  replied  Charlotte,  “very  well.  What  we 
! have  to  look  to  is,  that  we  introduce  no  alien  element,  noth- 
’ ing  which  shall  cross  or  obstruct  us.  Remember,  our  plans, 
even  those  which  only  concern  our  amusements,  depend 
j mainly  on  our  being  together.  You  were  to  read  to  me,  in 
I consecutive  order,  the  journal  which  you  made  when  you 
; were  abroad.  You  were  to  take  the  opportunity  of  arran- 
_ ging  it,  putting  all  the  loose  matter  connected  with  it  in  its 


116 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


place  ; and,  with  me  to  work  witli  you  and  help  you,  out  of 
those  invaluable  hut  chaotic  leaves  and  sheets,  to  put 
together  a complete  thing,  which  should  give  pleasure  to 
ourselves  and  to  others.  I promised  to  assist  you  in  tran- 
scribing ; and  we  thought  it  would  be  so  pleasant,  so  de- 
lightful, so  charming,  to  travel  over  in  recollection  the  world 
which  we  were  unable  to  see  together.  The  beginning  is 
already  made.  Then,  in  the  evenings,  you  have  taken  up 
your  flute  again,  accompanying  me  on  the  piano ; while,  of 
visits  backwards  and  forwards  among  the  neighborhood, 
there  is  abundance.  For  my  part,  I have  been  promising 
myself  out  of  all  this  the  first  really  happy  summer  I have 
ever  thought  to  spend  in  my  life.” 

“Only,  I cannot  see,”  replied  Edward,  rubbing  his  fore- 
head, “ how,  through  every  bit  of  this  which  you  have  been 
so  sweetly  and  so  sensibly  laying  before  me.  the  captain’s 
presence  can  be  any  interruption : I should  rather  have 
thought  it  would  give  it  all  fresh  zest  and  life.  He  was  my 
companion  during  a part  of  my  travels.  He  made  many 
observations  from  a different  point  of  view  from  mine.  We 
can  put  it  all  together,  and  so  make  a charmingly  complete 
W'ork  of  it.” 

“Well,  then,  I will  acknowledge  openly.”  answered  Char- 
lotte, with  some  impatience,  “my  feeling  is  against  this 
plan.  I have  an  instinct  which  tells  me  no  good  will  come 
of  it.” 

“ You  women  are  invincible  in  this  waj’,”  replied  Edward. 
“You  are  so  sensilile  that  there  is  no  answering  you;  then, 
so  affectionate,  that  one  is  glad  to  give  Avay  to  you  ; full  of 
feelings,  which  one  cannot  wound  ; and  full  of  forebodings, 
which  terrify  one.” 

“I  am  not  superstitious,”  said  Charlotte:  “and  I care 
nothing  for  these  dim  sensations,  mereh'  as  such ; but.  in 
general,  thej'  are  the  result  of  unconscious  recollections  of 
happy  or  unhappy  consequences,  which  we  have  experienced 
as  following  on  our  own  or  others’  actions.  Nothing  is  of 
greater  moment,  in  any  state  of  things,  than  the  intervention 
of  a third  person.  I have  seen  friends,  brothers  and  sisters, 
lovers,  husbands  and  wives,  whose  relation  to  each  other, 
through  the  accidental  or  intentional  introduction  of  a third 
person,  has  been  altogether  changed,  — whose  whole  moral 
condition  has  been  inverted  by  it.” 

“ That  may  very  well  be,”  replied  Edward.  “ with  people 
who  live  on,  without  looking  where  they  are  going;  but 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


117 


not,  surely,  with  i^ersons  who  have  attained,  to  self-con- 
sciousness.” 

“ Self-conscionsness,  my  clearest  husband,”  insisted  Char- 
lotte, “is  not  a sufficient  weapon.  It  is  very  often  a most 
dangerous  one  for  the  person  who  bears  it.  And,  out  of  all 
this,  at  least  so  much  seems  to  arise,  that  we  should  not  be 
in  too  great  a hurry.  Let  me  have  a few  days  to  think : 
don’t  decide.” 

“As  the  matter  stands,”  returned  Edward,  “however 
many  days  we  wait,  we  shall  still  be  in  too  great  a hurry. 
The  arguments  for  and  against  are  all  before  us  ; all  we  want 
is  the  conclusion  ; and,  as  things  are,  I think  the  best  thing 
we  can  do  is  to  draw  lots.” 

“ I know,”  said  Charlotte,  “ that,  in  doubtful  cases,  it  is 
your  way  to  leave  them  to  chance.  To  me,  in  such  a serious 
matter,  this  seems  almost  a crime.” 

“ Then,  what  am  I to  write  to  the  captain?  ” cried  Edward 
“ for  write  I must  at  once.” 

“Write  him  a kind,  sensible,  sympathizing  letter,”  an- 
swered Charlotte. 

“ That  is  as  good  as  none  at  all,”  replied  Edward. 

“Arid  there  are  many  cases,”  answered  she,  “in  which 
we  are  obliged,  and  in  which  it  is  the  real  kindness,  rather 
to  write  nothing  than  not  to  write.” 


CHAPTER  II. 

Edwakd  was  alone  in  his  room.  The  repetition  of  the 
incidents  of  his  life  from  Charlotte’s  lips  ; the  representation 
of  their  mutual  situation,  their  mutual  purposes,  — had  worked 
him,  sensitive  as  he  was,  into  a very  pleasant  state  of  mind. 
While  close  to  her  — while  in  her  presence  — he  had  felt  so 
happy,  that  he  had  thought  out  a warm,  kind,  but  quiet  and 
inclefinite,  epistle  which  he  w’ould  send  to  the  captain. 
When,  however,  he  liad  settled  himself  at  his  writing-table, 
and  taken  up  his  friend’s  letter  to  read  it  over  once  more,  the^ 
sad  condition  of  this  excellent  man  rose  again  vividly  before 
him.  The  feelings  which  had  been  all  day  distressing  him 
again  awoke,  and  it  appeared  impossible  to  him  to  leave  one 
whom  he  called  his  friend  in  such  painful  embarrassment. 


118 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


Edward  was  unaccustomed  to  deny  himself  any  thing. 
The  only  child,  and  consequently  the  spoiled  child,  of  wealthy 
parents,  who  had  persuaded  him  into  a singular  but  highly 
advantageous  marriage  with  a ladj^  far  older  than  himself ; 
and  again  by  her  petted  and  indulged  in  every  possible  way, 
she  seeking  to  reward  his  kindness  to  her  by  the  utmost 
liberality  ; after  her  early  death  his  own  master,  travelling 
independently  of  every  one,  equal  to  all  coiitingeucies  and  all 
changes,  with  desires  never  excessive,  but  multiple  and 
various, — free-hearted,  generous,  brave,  at  times  even  noble, 
— what  was  there  in  the  world  to  cross  or  thwart  him  ? 

Hitherto  every  thing  had  gone  as  he  desired.  Charlotte 
had  become  his  ; he  had  won  her  at  last,  witli  an  obstinate,  a 
romantic  fidelity  : and  now  he  felt  himself,  for  the  first  time, 
contradicted,  crossed  in  his  wishes,  when  those  wishes  were 
to  invite  to  his  home  the  friend  of  his  youth,  — just  as  he  was 
,^ongiiig,  as  it  were,  to  throw  open  his  whole  heart  to  him. 
He  felt  annoyed,  impatient : he  took  up  his  pen  again  and 
again,  and  as  often  threw  it  down  again  because  he  could 
not  make  up  his  mind  what  to  write.  He  would  not  go 
counter  to  his  wife’s  wishes : still  less  could  he  go  counter 
to  her  expressed  desire.  Ill  at  ease  as  he  was,  it  would  have 
been  impossible  for  him,  even  if  he  had  wished,  to  write  a 
quiet,  easy  letter.  The  most  natural  thing  to  do.  was  to  put 
it  off.  In  a few  words,  he  begged  his  friend  to  forgive  him 
for  having  left  his  letter  unanswered  : that  day  he  was  unable 
to  write  circumstantially,  but  shortly  he  hoped  to  be  able  to 
tell  him  what  he  felt  at  greater  length. 

The  next  day,  as  they  were  walking  to  the  same  spot, 
Charlotte  took  the  opportunity  of  bringing  back  the  conver- 
sation to  the  subject ; perhaps  because  she  knew  that  there 
is  no  surer  way  of  rooting  out  aiw  plan  or  purpose  than  by 
often  talking  it  over. 

It  was  what  Edward  was  wishing.  He  expressed  himself 
in  his  own  way,  kindly  and  sweeth'.  For  although,  sensitive 
as  he  was,  he  flamed  up  readily,  — although  the  vehemence 
with  which  he  desired  any  thing  made  him  pressing,  and  his 
obstinacy  made  him  impatient,  — his  words  were  so  softened 
by  his  wish  to  spare  the  feelings  of  those  to  whom  he  was 
speaking,  that  it  was  impossible  not  to  be  ch.armed,  even 
’when  one  most  disagreed  with  him. 

On  tliat  morning  he  first  contrived  to  bring  Charlotte  into 
the  happiest  humor,  and  then  so  disarmed  her  with  the  grace- 
ful turn  which  he  gave  to  the  conversation,  that  she  cried  out 
at  last,  — 


ELECTIVE  AFFESriTIES. 


119 


“You  are  determined  that  what  I refuse  to  the  husband 
you  will  make  me  grant  to  the  lover.  At  least,  my  dearest,” 
she  continued,  “ I will  acknowledge  that  3’our  wishes,  and  the 
warmth  and  sweetness  with  which  you  express  them,  have  not 
left  me  untouched,  have  not  left  me  unmoved.  You  drive  me 
to  make  a confession  : until  now  I,  too,  have  had  a conceal- 
ment from  you ; I am  in  exactly  the  same  position  with  you, 
and  I have  hitherto  been  putting  the  same  restraint  on  my 
inclination  which  I have  been  exhorting  you  to  put  on 
yours.” 

“ Glad  am  I to  hear  that,”  said  Edward.  “ In  the  married 
state,  a difference  of  opinion  now  and  then,  I see,  is  no  bad 
thing.  We  learn  something  of  one  another  by  it.” 

“ You  are  to  learn  at  present,  then,”  said  Charlotte,  “that 
I feel  with  regard  to  Ottilie  as  you  do  with  regard  to  the 
captain.  The  dear  child  is  most  uncomfortable  at  the  school, 
and  I am  thoroughly  uneasy  about  her.  Luciana,  my  daugh- 
ter, born  as  she  is  for  the  world,  is  there  training  hourly  for 
the  world ; languages,  history,  every  thing  that  is  taught 
there,  she  acquires  with  so  much  ease,  that,  as  it  were,  she 
learns  them  off  at  sight.  She  has  quick  natural  gifts,  and 
an  excellent  memory  : one  may  almost  say  she  forgets  every 
thing,  and  in  a moment  calls  it  all  back  again.  She  distin- 
guishes herself  above  every  one  at  the  school  with  the  freedom 
of  her  carriage,  the  grace  of  her  movement,  and  the  elegance 
of  her  address,  and,  with  the  inborn  royalty  of  nature,  makes 
herself  the  queen  of  the  little  circle  there.  The  superior 
of  the  establishment  regards  her  as  a little  divinity,  who 
under  her  hands  is  shaping  into  excellence,  and  who  will 
do  her  honor,  gain  her  reputation,  and  bring  her  a large 
increase  of  pupils  ; the  first  pages  of  this  good  ladj^’s  letters, 
and  her  monthly  notices  of  progress,  are  forever  hymns  about 
the  excellence  of  such  a child,  which  I have  to  translate  into 
my  own  prose  ; while  her  concluding  sentences  about  Ottilie 
are  nothing  but  excuse  after  excuse,  — attempts  at  explaining 
how  it  can  be  that  a girl  in  other  respects  growing  up  so 
lovely  seems  coming  to  nothing,  and  shows  neither  capacity 
nor  accomplishment.  This,  and  the  little  she  has  to  say 
besides,  is  no  riddle  to  me  ; because  I can  see  in  this  dear 
child  the  same  character  as  that  of  her  mother,  who  was  my 
own  dearest  friend,  who  grew  up  with  myself,  and  whose 
daughter,  I am  certain,  if  I had  the  care  of  her  education, 
would  form  into  an  exquisite  creatm-e. 

“This,  however,  has  not  fallen  in  with  our  plan  ; and  as  one 


120 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


ought  not  to  be  picking  and  pulling,  or  forever  introducing 
new  elements  among  the  conditions  of  our  life,  I think  it 
better  to  bear,  and  to  conquer  as  I can,  even  the  unpleasant 
impression  that  my  daughter,  who  knows  v^y  well  that 
poor  Ottilie  is  entirely  dependent  upon  us,  does  not  refrain 
from  flourishing  her  own  successes  in  her  face,  and  so,  to  a 
certain  extent,  destroys  the  little  good  which  we  have  done 
for  her.  Who  are  well  enough  trained  never  to  wound 
others  by  a parade  of  their  own  advantages  ? and  who  stands 
so  high  as  not  at  times  to  suffer  under  such  a slight?  In 
trials  like  these,  Ottilie’s  character  is  growing  iu  strength; 
but,  since  I have  clearly  known  the  paiufulness  of  her  situa- 
tion, I have  been  thinking  over  all  possible  ways  to  make  some 
other  arrangement.  Every  hour  I am  expecting  an  answer 
to  my  own  last  letter,  and  then  I do  not  mean  to  hesitate  an}' 
more.  So,  my  dear  Edward,  it  is  with  me.  We  have  both, 
you  see,  the  same  sorrows  to  bear,  touching  both  our  hearts 
in  the  same  point.  Let  us  bear  them  together,  since  we 
neither  of  us  can  press  our  own  against  the  other.” 

“We  are  strange  creatures,”  said  Edward,  smiling.  “ If 
we  can  only  put  out  of  sight  any  thing  which  troubles  us.  we 
fancy  at  once  we  have  got  rid  of  it.  We  can  give  up  much 
in  the  large  and  general,  but  to  make  sacrifices  iu  little  things 
is  a demand  to  which  we  are  rarely  equal.  So  it  was  with 
my  mother,  — as  long  as  I lived  with  her,  while  a boy  and 
a young  man,  she  could  not  bear  to  let  me  be  a moment  out 
of  her  sight.  If  I was  out  later  than  usual  iu  my  ride,  some 
misfortune  must  have  happened  to  me.  If  I got  wet  through 
in  a shower,  a fever  was  inevitable.  I travelled : I was 
absent  from  her  altogether ; and,  at  once.  I scarce!}'  seemed 
to  belong  to  her.  If  we  look  at  it  closer,”  he  continued. 
“ we  are  both  acting  very  foolishly.  A'ery  culpably.  Two 
very  noble  natures,  both  of  which  have  the  closest  claims  on 
our  affection,  we  are  leaving  exposed  to  pain  and  distress, 
merely  to  aA'oid  exposing  ourselves  to  a chance  of  danger. 
If  this  is  not  to  be  called  selfish,  what  is?  You  take  Ottilie  : 
let  me  have  the  captain  : and  for  a short  period,  at  least, 
let  the  trial  be  made.” 

“We  might  venture  it,”  said  Charlotte  thoughtfully,  “if 
the  danger  were  only  to  ourselves.  But  do  you  think  it 
prudent  to  bring  Ottilie  and  the  captain  into  a situation 
Avhere  they  must  necessarily  be  so  closely  intimate.  — the 
captain  a man  no  older  than  yourself,  of  an  age  (I  am  not 
saying  this  to  flatter  you)  Avheu  a mau  becomes  first  capable 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


121 


of  love  and  first  deserving  of  it,  and  a girl  of  Ottilie’s  attraC' 
tiveness  ? ’ ’ 

“I  cannot  conceive  how  you  can  rate  Ottilie  so  high,” 
replied  Edward.  “ I can  only  explain  it  to  myself  by  sup- 
posing her  to  have  inherited  your  affection  for  her  mother. 
Pretty  she  is,  no  doubt.  I remember  the  captain  telling  me 
so,  when  we  came  back  last  year,  and  met  her  at  your  aunt’s. 
Attractive  she  is,  — she  has  particularly  pretty  eyes  ; but  I 
do  not  know  that  she  made  the  slightest  impression  upon 
me.” 

“ That  was  quite  proper  in  you,”  said  Charlotte,  “ seeing 
that  I was  there  ; and,  although  she  is  much  younger  than  I, 
the  presence  of  your  old  frieud  had  so  many  charms  for  you, 
that  you  overlooked  the  promise  of  the  opening  beauty.  It 
is  one  of  your  ways,  and  that  is  one  reason  why  it  is  so 
pleasant  to  live  with  you.” 

Charlotte,  openly  as  she  appeared  to  be  speaking,  was 
keeping  back  something,  nevertheless,  which  was,  that,  at 
the  time  when  Edward  first  came  back  from  abroad,  she  had 
purposely  thrown  Ottilie  in  his  way,  to  secure,  if  possible,  so 
desirable  a match  for  h&v  protegee.  For  of  herself,  at  that 
time,  in  connection  with  Edward,  she  never  thought  at  aU. 
The  captain,  also,  had  a hint  given  to  him  to  draw  Edward’s 
attention  to  her ; but  the  latter,  who  was  clinging  deter- 
minately  to  his  early  affection  for  Charlotte,  looked  neither 
right  nor  left,  and  was  onl}’  happy  in  the  feeling  that  it  was 
at  last  within  his  power  to  obtain  for  himself  the  one  happi- 
ness which  he  so  earnestly  desired,  and  which  a series  of 
incidents  had  appeared  to  have  placed  forever  beyond  his 
reach. 

They  were  on  the  point  of  descending  the  new  gi’ounds, 
newly  laid  out,  in  order  to  return  to  the  castle,  when  a ser- 
vant came  hastily  to  meet  them,  and,  with  a laugh  on  his 
face,  called  up  from  below,  “ Will  3'our  grace  be  pleased 
to  come  quickly  to  the  castle?  The  Herr  Mittler  has  just 
galloped  into  the  court.  He  shouted  to  us,  to  go  all  of  us  in 
search  of  j-ou  ; and  we  were  to  ask  whether  there  was  need, 
‘whether  there  is  need,’  he  cried  after  us,  ‘do  you  hear? 
but  be  quick,  be  quick.’  ” 

“ The  odd  fellow  ! ” exclaimed  Edward.  “ But  has  he  not 
come  at  the  right  time,  Charlotte?  Tell  him,  there  is  need, 
— grievous  need.  He  must  alight.  See  his  horse  taken  care 
of.  Take  him  into  the  saloon,  and  let  him  have  some  lun- 
cheon. We  shall  be  with  him  immediately.” 


122 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


“ Let  us  take  the  nearest  way,”  he  said  to  his  wife,  and 
struck  into  the  path  across  the  churchyard,  Avhich  he  usually 
avoided.  He  was  not  a little  surprised  to  find  here,  too, 
traces  of  Charlotte’s  delicate  hand.  Sparing,  as  far  as  pos- 
sible, the  old  monuments,  she  had  contrived  to  level  it,  and 
lay  it  carefully  out,  so  as  to  make  it  appear  a pleasant  spot 
on  which  the  eye  and  the  imagination  could  equally  repose 
with  pleasure.  The  oldest  stones  had  each  their  special 
honor  assigned  them.  They  were  ranged  according  to  then- 
dates  along  the  wall,  either  leaning  against  it,  or  let  into 
it,  or  however  it  could  be  contrived  ; and  the  string-course 
of  the  church  was  thus  variously  ornamented. 

Edward  was  singularly  affected  as  he  came  in  upon  it 
through  the  little  wicket : he  pressed  Charlotte’s  hand,  and 
tears  started  into  his  eyes.  But  these  were  verj'  soon  put  to 
flight  by  the  appearance  of  their  singular  visitor.  This 
gentleman  had  declined  sitting  down  in  the  castle : he  had 
ridden  straight  through  the  village  to  the  churchyard-gate  ; 
and  then,  halting,  he  called  out  to  his  friends,  “ Are  you  not 
making  a fool  of  me?  Is  there  need,  really?  If  there  is,  I 
can  stay  till  midday.  But  don’t  keep  me.  I have  a great 
deal  to  do  before  night.” 

“ Since  }mu  have  taken  the  trouble  to  come  so  far,”  cried 
Edward  to  him,  in  answer,  --you  had  better  come  through 
the  gate.  We  meet  at  a solemn  spot.  Come  and  see  the 
variety  which  Charlotte  has  thrown  over  its  sadness.” 

“ Inside  there,”  called  out  the  rider,  “come  I neither  on 
horseback,  nor  in  carriage,  nor  on  foot.  These  here  rest  in 
peace  : with  them  I have  nothing  to  do.  One  day  I shall  be 
carried  in  feet  foremost.  I must  bear  that  as  I can.  — Is 
it  serious,  I want  to  know?  ” 

“Indeed  it  is,”  cried  Charlotte,  “right  serious.  For 
the  first  time  in  our  married  lives  we  are  in  a strait  and 
difficulty,  from  which  we  do  not  know  how  to  extricate 
ourselves.” 

“ You  do  not  look  as  if  it  were  so,”  answered  he.  “ But 
I will  believe  you.  If  you  are  deceivmg  me.  for  the  future 
you  shall  help  yourselves.  Follow  me  quickly:  m-y  horse 
will  be  none  the  worse  for  a rest.” 

The  three  soon  met  in  the  parlor,  where  luncheon  was 
brought  in  ; and  Wittier  told  them  what  he  had  done,  and  was 
going  to  do  on  that  da}-.  This  eccentric  person  had  in  early 
life  been  a clergyman,  and  had  distinguished  himself  in  his 
office  bj'  the  never-resting  activ  ity  with  which  he  contrived  to 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


123 


make  up  aud  put  an  end  to  quarrels,  — quarrels  in  families, 
aud  quarrels  between  neighbors  ; first  among  the  individuals 
immediately  about  him,  aud  afterwards  among  whole  con- 
gregations, and  among  the  country  gentlemen  round.  While 
he  was  in  the  ministry,  no  married  couple  were  allowed  to 
separate  ; aud  the  district  courts  were  untroubled  with  either 
cause  or  process.  A knowledge  of  the  law,  he  was  well 
aware,  was  necessary  to  him.  He  gave  himself  with  all  his 
might  to  the  study  of  it,  and  very  soon  felt  himself  a match 
for  the  best-trained  advocate.  His  circle  of  activity  ex- 
tended wonderfully ; and  people  were  on  the  point  of  indu- 
cing him  to  move  to  the  Kesidence,  where  he  would  find 
opportunities  of  exercising  in  the  higher  circles  what  he  had 
begun  in  the  lowest,  when  he  won  a considerable  sum  of 
money  in  a lottery.  With  this  he  bought  himself  a small 
property.  He  let  the  ground  to  a tenant,  aud  made  it  the 
centre  of  his  operations,  with  the  fixed  determination,  or 
rather  in  accordance  with  his  old  customs  aud  inclinations, 
never  to  enter  a house  when  there  was  no  dispute  to  make 
up,  and  no  help  to  be  given.  People  who  were  superstitious 
about  names,  and  about  what  they  imported,  mamtaiued  that 
it  was  his  being  called  Mittler  which  drove  him  to  take  upon 
himself  this  strange  employment. 

Luncheon  was  laid  on  the  table,  and  the  stranger  then 
solemnly  pressed  his  host  not  to  wait  any  longer  with  the 
disclosure  which  he  had  to  make.  Immediately  after  refresh- 
ing himself  he  would  be  obliged  to  leave  them. 

Husband  aud  wife  made  a circumstantial  confession  ; but 
scarcely  had  he  caught  the  substance  of  the  matter,  when  he 
started  angrily  up  from  the  table,  rushed  out  of  the  saloon, 
and  ordered  his  horse  to  be  saddled  instantly. 

“Either  jmu  do  not  know  me,  you  do  not  understand 
me,”  he  cried,  “or  you  are  sorely  mischievous.  Do  you 
call  this  a quarrel?  Is  there  any  want  of  help  here?  Do 
you  suppose  that  I am  in  the  world  to  give  advice?  Of  all 
occupations  which  man  can  pursue,  that  is  the  most  foolish. 
Every  man  must  be  his  own  counsellor,  and  do  what  he  can- 
not let  alone.  If  all  go  well,  let  him  be  happy,  let  him 
enjoy  his  wisdom  and  his  fortune  ; if  it  go  ill,  I am  at  hand  to 
do  what  I can  for  him.  The  man  who  desires  to  be  rid  of 
an  evil,  knows  what  he  wants  ; but  the  man  who  desires 
something  better  than  he  has  is  stone-blind.  Yes,  yes, 
laugh  as  you  will,  he  is  playing  blindman’s-buff ; perhaps 
he  gets  hold  of  something ; but  the  question  is,  what  he  has 


124 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


got  hold  of.  Do  as  you  will : it  is  all  one.  Invite  your 
friends  to  you,  or  let  them  be  : it  is  all  the  same.  The  most 
prudent  plans  I have  seen  miscarry,  and  the  most  foolish 
succeed.  Don’t  split  your  brains  about  it:  and  if,  one  way 
or  the  other,  evil  comes  of  what  you  settle,  don’t  fret ; send 
for  me,  and  you  shall  be  helped.  Till  which  time  I am  your 
humble  servant.” 

ISo  saying,  he  sprang  on  his  horse,  without  waiting  the 
arrival  of  the  coffee. 

“Here  you  see,”  said  Charlotte,  “the  small  sendee  a 
third  person  can  be  when  things  are  off  their  balance 
between  two  persons  closely  connected  : wm  are  left,  if  pos- 
sible, more  confused  and  more  uncertain  than  we  were.” 
They  would  both  probably  have  continued  hesitating  some 
time  longer,  had  not  a letter  arrived  from  the  captain  in 
reply  to  Edward’s  last.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
accept  one  of  the  situations  which  had  been  offered  him, 
although  it  was  not  in  the  least  up  to  his  mark.  He  was  to 
share  the  ennui  of  certain  wealthy  persons  of  rank,  who 
depended  on  his  ability  to  dissipate  it. 

Edward’s  keen  glance  saw  into  the  whole  thing ; and  he 
pictured  it  out  in  just,  sharp  lines. 

“Can  we  endure  to  think  of  our  friend  in  such  a posi- 
tion?” he  cried.  “You  cannot  be  so  cruel,  Charlotte.” 
“That  strange  Mittler  is  right,  after  all,”  replied  Char- 
lotte: “ all  such  undertakings  are  ventures  ; what  will  come 
of  them,  it  is  impossible  to  foresee.  Yew  elements  iuti'O- 
duced  among  us  ma}'  be  fruitful  iu  fortune  or  in  misfortune, 
without  our  having  to  take  credit  to  ourselves  for  one  or  the 
other.  I do  not  feel  myself  firm  enough  to  oppose  you 
further.  Let  us  make  the  experiment ; only  one  thing  I 
will  entreat  of  you,  — that  it  be  only  for  a short  time.  You 
must  allow  me  to  exert  myself  more  than  ever,  to  use  all 
my  influence  among  all  my  connections,  to  find  him  some 
position  which  will  satisfy  him  in  his  own  way.” 

Edward  assured  his  wife  of  his  warmest  gratitude.  He 
hastened  with  a light,  happy  heart,  to  write  off  his  proposals 
to  his  friend.  Charlotte  in  a postscript  was  to  signify  her 
approbation  with  her  own  hand,  and  unite  her  own  kind 
entreaties  with  his.  She  wrote,  with  a rapid  pen.  pleasantly 
and  affectionately,  but  yet  with  a sort  of  haste  which  was 
not  usual  with  her ; and,  most  unlike  herself,  she  disfigured 
the  paper  at  last  with  a blot  of  iuk,  which  put  her  out  of 
teinper,  and  which  she  only  made  worse  with  her  attempts 
to  wipe  it  awa}". 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


125 


Edward  laughed  at  her  about  it ; and,  as  there  was  still 
room,  added  a second  postscript,  that  his  friend  was  to  see 
from  this  symptom  the  impatience  with  which  he  was  ex- 
pected, and  mea,sure  the  speed  at  which  he  came  to  them 
by  the  haste  in  which  the  letter  was  written. 

The  messenger  was  gone ; and  Edward  thought  he  could 
not  give  a more  convincing  evidence  of  his  gratitude  than  by 
insisting  again  and  again  that  Charlotte  should  at  once  send 
for  Ottilie  from  the  school.  She  said  she  would  think  about 
it,  and,  for  that  evening,  induced  Edward  to  join  with  her 
in  the  enjoyment  of  a little  music.  Charlotte  played  ex- 
ceedingly well  on  the  piano,  Edward  not  quite  so  well  on  the 
flute.  He  had  taken  a great  deal  of  pains  with  it  at  times  ; 
but  he  lacked  the  patience,  the  perseverance,  requisite  for 
the  completely  successful  cultivation  of  such  a talent.  Con- 
sequently his  part  was  done  unequally  : some  pieces  well, 
only  perhaps  too  quickly ; while  with  others  he  hesitated, 
not  being  quite  familiar  with  them  ; so  that,  for  anj"  one 
else,  it  would  have  been  diflicult  to  have  gone  through  a 
duet  with  him.  But  Charlotte  knew  how  to  manage  it.  She 
held  in,  or  let  herself  be  run  away  with,  and  fulfilled  in  this 
way  the  double  part  of  a skilful  conductor  and  a prudent 
house-wife,  who  are  able  always  to  keep  right  on  the  whole, 
although  particular  passages  will  now  and  then  fall  out  of 
order. 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  captain  came,  having  previously  written  a most 
sensible  letter,  which  had  entirely  quieted  Charlotte’s  appre- 
hensions. So  much  clearness  about  himself,  so  just  an 
understanding  of  his  own  position  and  the  position  of  his 
friends,  promised  every  thing  which  was  best  and  happiest. 

The  conversation  of  the  first  few  hours,  as  is  generally 
the  case  with  friends  who  have  not  met  for  a long  time,  was 
eager,  lively,  almost  exhausting.  Towards  evening  Char- 
lotte proposed  a walk  to  the  new  grounds.  The  captain  was 
delighted  with  the  spot,  and  observed  every  beauty  which 
had  been  first  brought  into  sight  and  made  enjoj’able  by  the 
new  walks.  He  had  a practised  eye,  and  at  the  same  time 
one  easily  satisfied ; and,  although  he  knew  very  well  what 


126 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


was  really  valuahle,  he  never,  as  so  many  persons  do,  made 
people  who  were  showing  him  things  of  their  own  uncomfort- 
able by  requiring  more  than  the  circumstances  admitted  of, 
or  by  mentioning  any  thing  more  perfect  which  he  remem- 
bered having  seen  elsewhere. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  summer-house,  they  found  it 
dressed  out  for  a holiday,  only,  indeed,  with  artificial  flowers 
and  evergreens,  but  with  some  pretty  bunches  of  natural 
corn-ears  among  them,  and  other  field  and  garden  fruit,  so 
as  to  do  credit  to  the  taste  which  had  arranged  them. 

“ Although  my  husband  does  not  like  in  general  to  have 
his  birthday  or  christening-da}’  kept,”  Charlotte  said,  “lie 
will  not  object  to-day  to  these  few  ornaments  being  expended 
on  a treble  festival.” 

X “ Treble?  ” cried  Edward. 

^ “Yes,  indeed,”  she  replied.  “Our  friend’s  amval  here 
-we  are  bound  to  keep  as  a festival ; and  have  you  never 
thought,  either  of  you,  that  this  is  the  day  on  which  you 
were  both  christened?  Are  you  not  both  named  Otto?” 

The  two  friends  shook  hands  across  the  little  table. 

“ You  bring  back  to  ray  mind,”  Edward  said,  “•  this  little 
link  of  our  boyish  affection.  As  children  we  were  both 
called  so : but,  when  we  came  to  be  at  school  together,  it 
was  the  cause  of  much  confusion  ; and  1 leadily  made  over 
to  him  all  my  right  to  the  pretty,  laconic  name.” 

“ Wherein  you  were  not  altogether  so  very  high-minded,” 
said  the  captain  ; “ for  I well  remember  that  the  name  of 
Edward  had  then  begun  to  please  you  better,  from  its  attrac- 
tive sound  when  spoken  by  certain  pretty  lips.” 

They  were  now  all  three  sitting  round  the  same  table 
where  Charlotte  had  spoken  so  vehemently  against  their 
guest’s  coming  to  them.  Edward,  happy  as  he  was.  did  not 
wish  to  remind  his  wife  of  that  time ; but  he  could  not  help 
saying, — 

“ There  is  good  room  here  for  one  more  person.” 

At  this  moment  the  notes  of  a bugle  were  heard  across 
from  the  castle.  Full  of  happy  thoughts  and  feelings  as  the 
friends  all  were  together,  the  sound  fell  in  among  them  with 
a strong  force  of  answering  harmony.  They  listened  silently  ; 
each  for  the  moment  withdrawing  into  himself,  and  feeling 
doubly  happy  in  the  fair  circle  of  which  he  formed  a part. 
The  pause  was  first  broken  by  Edward,  who  started  up.  aud 
walked  out  in  front  of  the  summer-house. 

“ Our  friend  must  not  think.”  he  said  to  Charlotte,  “ that 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


127 


this  narrow  little  valley  forms  the  whole  of  our  domain  and 
possessions.  Let  us  take  him  up  to  the  top  of  the  hiU, 
where  he  can  see  farther,  and  breathe  more  freely.” 

“For  this  once,  then,”  answered  Charlotte,  “we  must 
climb  up  the  old  footpath,  which  is  not  too  easy.  By  the 
next  time,  I hope  my  walks  and  steps  will  have  been  carried 
right  up.” 

And  so,  among  rocks  and  shrubs  and  bushes,  they  made 
their  way  to  the  summit,  where  they  found  themselves,  not 
on  a level  flat,  but  on  a sloping  grassy  terrace,  running  along 
the  ridge  of  the  hill.  The  village,  with  the  castle  behind  it, 
was  out  of  sight.  At  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  sheets  of 
water  were  seen  spreading  out  right  and  left,  with  wooded 
hills  rising  immediately  from  their  opposite  margin,  and,  at 
the  end  of  the  upper  water,  a wall  of  sharp,  precipitous  rocks 
directly  overhanging  it,  their  huge  forms  reflected  in  its  level 
surface.  In  the  hollow  of  the  ravine,  where  a considerable 
brook  ran  into  the  lake,  lay  a mill  half  hidden  among  the 
trees,  a sweetly  retired  spot,  most  beautifully  surrounded ; 
and  through  the  entire  semicircle,  over  which  the  view 
extended,  ran  an  endless  variety'  of  hills  and  valleys,  copse 
and  forest,  the  early  green  of  which  promised  the  near 
approach  of  a luxuriant  clothing  of  foliage.  In  many  places 
particular  groups  of  trees  caught  the  eye,  and  especially  a 
cluster  of  planes  and  poplars  directly  at  the  spectator’s  feet, 
close  to  the  edge  of  the  centre  lake.  They  were  at  their  full 
growth  ; and  they  stood  there,  spreading  out  their  boughs 
all  around  them,  in  fresh  and.luxuriant  strength. 

To  these  Edward  called  his  friend’s  attention. 

“ I myself  planted  them,”  he  cried,  “ when  I was  a boy. 
They  were  small  trees  which  I rescued  when  my  father  was 
laying  out  the  new  part  of  the  great  castle  garden,  and  in 
the  middle  of  one  summer  had  rooted  them  out.  This  year 
you  will  no  doubt  see  them  show  their  gratitude  in  a fresh 
set  of  shoots.” 

They  returned  to  the  castle  in  high  spirits,  and  mutually 
pleased  with  each  other.  To  the  guest  was  allotted  an  agree- 
able and  roomy  set  of  apartments  in  the  right  wing  of  the 
castle ; and  here  he  rapidly  got  his  books  and  papers  and 
instruments  in  order,  to  go  on  with  his  usual  occupation. 
But  Edward,  for  the  first  few  days,  gave  him  no  rest.  He 
took  iiim  about  eveiywhere,  now  on  foot,  now  on  horseback, 
making  him  acquainted  with  the  country  and  with  the  estate  ; 
and  he  embraced  the  opportunity  of  imparting  to  him  the 


128 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


wishes,  which  he  had  been  long  entertaining,  of  getting  at 
some  better  acquaintance  with  it,  and  learning  to  manage  it 
more  profitably. 

“ The  first  thing  we  have  to  do,”  said  the  captain,  “ is  to 
make  a magnetic  survey  of  the  property.  That  is  a pleasant 
and  easy  matter ; and,  if  it  does  not  admit  of  entire  exact- 
ness, it  will  be  always  useful,  and  will  do,  at  any  rate,  for 
an  agreeable  beginning.  It  can  be  made,  too,  without  any 
great  staff  of  assistants  ; and  one  can  be  sure  of  getting 
it  completed.  If  by  and  by  you  come  to  require  any  thing 
more  exact,  it  will  be  easy  then  to  find  some  plan  to  have  it 
made.” 

The  captain  was_  exceedingly  skilful  at  work  of  this  kind. 
He  had  brought  with  him  whatever  instruments  he  required, 
and  commenced  immediately.  Edward  provided  him  with  a 
number  of  foresters  and  peasants,  who.  with  his  instruction, 
were  able  to  render  him  all  necessary  assistance.  The  weather 
was  favorable.  The  evenings  and  the  early  mornings  were 
devoted  to  the  designing  and  drawing : and,  in  a short  time, 
it  was  all  filled  in  and  colored.  Edward  saw  his  possessions 
grow  out,  like  a new  creation,  upon  the  paper  ; and  it  seemed 
as  if  now,  for  the  first  time,  he  knew  what  they  were,  as  if 
they  now,  first,  wmre  properly  his  own. 

There  occurred  opportunities  of  speaking  about  the  park, 
and  the  ways  of  laying  it  out,  — a far  better  disposition  of 
tilings  being  made  possible,  after  a survey  of  this  kind,  than 
could  be  arrived  at  by  experimenting  on  nature,  on  partial 
and  accidental  impressions. 

“We  must  make  my  wife  understand  this,”  said  Edward. 

“We  must  do  nothing  of  the  kind,”  replied  the  captain, 
who  did  not  like  bringing  his  own  notions  in  collision  with 
those  of  others.  He  had  learned  In’  experience  that  the 
motives  and  purposes  by  which  men  are  influenced  are  far 
too  various  to  be  made  to  coalesce  upon  a single  point,  even 
on  the  most  solid  representations.  “We  must  not  do  it.” 
he  cried : “ she  will  be  only  confused.  With  her.  as  with  all 
people  who  employ  themselves  on  such  matters  merely  as 
amateurs,  the  important  thing  is,  rather  that  she  shall  do 
something,  than  that  something  shall  be  done.  Such  persons 
feel  their  way^  with  nature.  They  have  fancies  for  this  plan 
or  that : they’  do  not  venture  on  removing  obstacles.  They 
are  not  bold  enough  to  make  a sacrifice.  They  do  not  know 
beforehand  in  what  their  work  is  to  result.  They  try  an 
experiment  — it  succeeds  — it  fails  ; they  alter  it ; they’  alter, 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


129 


perhaps,  what  they  ought  to  leave  alone,  and  leave  what  they 
ought  to  alter ; and  so,  at  last,  there  always  remains  but  a 
patchwork,  which  pleases  and  amuses,  but  never  satisfies.” 

“ Acknowledge  candidly,”  said  Edward,  “ that  you  do  not 
like  this  new  work  of  hers.” 

“The  idea  is  excellent,”  he  replied:  “if  the  execution 
were  equal  to  it,  there  would  be  no  fault  to  find.  But  she 
has  tormented  herself  to  find  her  way  up  that  rock ; and  she 
now  torments  every  one,  if  you  must  have  it,  that  she  takes 
up  after  her.  You  cannot  walk  together,  }"ou  cannot  walk 
behind  one  another,  with  any  freedom.  Every  moment  your 
step  is  inteiTupted  one  way  or  another.  There  is  no  end  to 
the  mistakes  which  she  has  made.” 

“Would  it  have  been  easy  to  do  it  otherwise?”  asked 
Edward. 

“ Very  easy,”  replied  the  captain.  “She  had  only  to  break 
away  a corner  of  the  rock,  — which  is  now  but  an  unsightly 
object,  made  up  as  it  is  of  little  pieces,  — and  she  would  at 
once  have  a sweep  for  her  walk,  and  stone  in  abundance  for 
the  rough  masonry-work,  to  widen  it  in  the  bad  places,  and 
make  it  smooth.  But  this  I tell  you  in  strictest  confidence, 
or  else  it  will  confuse  and  annoy  her.  AVhat  is  done  must 
remain  as  it  is.  If  any  more  money  and  labor  are  to  be  spent 
there,  there  is  abundance  to  do  above  the  summer-house  on 
the  hill,  which  we  can  settle  our  own  way.” 

If  the  two  friends  found  in  their  occupation  abundance  of 
•present  employment,  there  was  no  lack  either  of  entertaining 
reminiscences  of  early  times,  in  which  Charlotte  took  her 
part  as  well.  They  determined,  moreover,  that,  as  soon  as 
their  immediate  labors  were  finished,  they  would  go  to  work 
upon  the  journal,  and  in  this  way,  too,  reproduce  the  past. 

For  the  rest,  when  Edward  and  Charlotte  were  alone,  there 
were  fewer  matters  of  private  interest  between  them  than 
formerly.  This  was  especially  the  case  since  the  fault-finding 
about  the  grounds,  which  Edward  thought  so  just,  and  which 
he  felt  to  the  quick.  He  held  his  tongue  about  what  the 
captain  had  said  for  a long  time  ; but  at  last,  when  he  saw 
his  wife  again  preparing  to  go  to  work  above  the  summer- 
house with  her  paths  and  steps,  he  could  not  contain  himself 
any  longer,  but,  after  a few  circumlocutions,  came  out  with 
his  new  views. 

Charlotte  was  thoroughly  disturbed.  She  was  sensible 
enough  to  perceive  at  once  that  they  were  right ; but  there 
was  the  diflSculty  with  what  was  already  done,  — and  what 


130 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


was  made  was  made.  She  had  liked  it:  even  what  was 
wrong  had  become  dear  to  her  in  its  details.  She  fought 
against  her  convictions  ; she  pleaded  for  her  little  creations ; 
she  railed  at  men  who  were  forever  going  to  the  broad  and 
the  great.  They  could  not  let  a pastime,  they  could  not  let 
an  amusement,  alone,  she  said  ; liut  the}’  must  go  and  make 
a work  out  of  it,  never  thinking  of  the  expense  which  their 
larger  plans  involved.  She  was  provoked,  annoyed,  and 
angry.  Her  old  plans  she  could  not  give  up.  the  new  she 
would  not  quite  throw  from  her ; but,  divided  as  she  was, 
for  the  present  she  put  a stop  to  the  work,  and  gave  herself 
time  to  think  the  thing  over,  and  let  it  ripen  by  itself. 

At  the  same  time  that  she  lost  this  source  of  active  amuse- 
ment, the  others  were  more  and  more  together  over  their 
own  business.  They  took  to  occupying  themselves,  more- 
over, with  the  flower-garden  and  the  hot-houses  ; and.  as 
they  filled  up  the  intervals  with  the  ordinary  gentlemen’s 
amusements,  — hunting,  riding,  buying,  selling,  breaking 
horses,  and  such  matters,  — she  was  every  day  left  more 
and  more  to  herself.  She  devoted  herself  more  assiduously 
than  ever  to  her  correspondence  on  account  of  the  captain, 
and  yet  she  had  many  lonely  hours  ; so  that  the  information 
which  she  now  received  from  the  school  became  of  more 
agreeable  interest. 

To  a long-drawn  letter  of  the  superior  of  the  establish- 
ment, filled  with  the  usual  expressions  of  delight  at  her 
daughter’s  progress,  a brief  postscript  was  attached,  with  a 
second  from  the  hand  of  a gentleman  in  employment  there 
as  an  assistant,  both  of  which  we  here  communicate. 

POSTSCRIPT  OF  THE  SUPERIOR. 

“ Of  Ottilie,  I can  only  repeat  to  your  ladyship  what  I 
have  already  stated  in  my  former  letters.  I do  not  know 
how  to  find  fault  with  her,  yet  I cannot  say  that  I am  satis- 
fied. She  is  always  unassuming,  always  ready  to  oblige 
others  ; but  it  is  not  pleasing  to  see  her  so  timid,  so  almost 
servile. 

“Your  ladyship  lately  sent  her  some  money,  with  several 
little  matters  for  her  wardrobe.  The  money  she  has  never 
touched,  the  dresses  lay  unworn  in  their  place.  She  keeps 
her  things  very  nice  and  very  clean,  but  this  is  all  she  seems 
to  care  about.  Again,  I cannot  praise  her  excessive  abste- 
miousness in  eating  and  drinking.  There  is  no  extr.avagance 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


131 


at  our  table  ; but  there  is  nothing  I like  better  than  to  see 
the  children  eat  enough  of  good,  wholesome  food.  What  is 
carefully  provided  and  set  before  them  ought  to  be  taken, 
and  to  this  I never  can  succeed  in  Jbriuging  Ottilie.  She  is 
always  making  herself  some  occupation  or  other,  always 
finding  something  which  she  must  do,  something  which  the 
servants  have  neglected,  to  escape  the  second  course  or  the 
dessert ; and  now  it  has  to  be  considered  (which  I cannot 
help  connecting  with  all  this)  that  she  frequently  suffers,  I 
have  lately  learned,  from  pain  in  the  left  side  of  her  herd. 
It  is  only  at  times  ; but  it  is  distressing,  and  may  be  of 
importance.  So  much  upon  this  otherwise  sweet  and  lo  /ely 
girl.” 

THE  assistant’s  ENCLOSURE. 

“ Our  excellent  superior  commonly  permits  me  to  read 
the  letters  in  which  she  communicates  her  observatioi  s upon 
her  pupils  to  their  parents  and  friends.  Such  of  iiem  as 
are  addressed  to  your  ladyship  I ever  read  with  twofold 
attention  and  pleasure.  We  have  to  crngratulate  you  upon 
a daughter  who  unites  in  herself  every  brilliant  quality  with 
which  people  distinguish  themselves  .n  the  world  ; and  I at" 
least  think  you  no  less  fortunate  m having  had  bestowed 
upon  you,  in  your  adopted  daughter,  a child  who  has  been  born 
for  the  good  and  happiness  of  others,  and  assuredly  also  for 
her  own.  Ottilie  is  almost  our  only  pupil  about  whom  there 
is  a difference  of  opinion  between  myself  aiid  our  reverend 
superior.  I do  not  complain  of  the  very  .latural  desire  in 
that  good  lady  to  see  outward  and  defir  ite  fruits  arising 
from  her  labors.  But  there  are  also  fruits  which  are  not 
outward,  which  are  of  the  true  germinal  sort,  and  which  de- 
velop themselves,  sooner  or  later,  in  a oeautiful  life.  And 
this  I am  certain  is  the  case  with  your  protegee.  So  long  as 
she  has  been  under  my  care,  I have  watched  her  moving 
with  an  even  step,  slowly,  steadih  forward  — never  back. 
As  with  a child  it  is  necessary  to  begin  every  thing  at  the 
beginning,  so  it  is  with  her.  She  can  comprehend  nothing 
which  does  not  follow  from  what  precedes  ; let  a thing  be 
as  simple  and  easy  as  possible,  s!ie  can  make  nothing  of  it 
if  it  is  not  in  a recognizable  conuection  ; but  find  the  inter- 
mediate links,  and  make  them  clear  to  her,  and  then  nothing 
is  too  difficult  for  her. 

“Progressing  so  slowly,  she  remains  behind  her  compan- 
ions, who,  with  capacities  of  quite  a different  kind,  hurry  on 


132 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


and  on,  learn  every  thing  readily,  connected  or  unconnected, 
recollect  it  with  ease,  and  apply  it  with  correctness.  And 
-again,  some  of  the  lessons  here  are  given  by  excellent,  but 
somewhat  hasty  and  impatient,  teachers,  who  pass  from 
result  to  result,  cutting  short  the  process  bj’  which  thej"  are 
arrived  at ; and  these  are  not  of  the  slightest  service  to  her, 
she  learns  nothing  from  them.  There  have  been  complaints 
about  her  handwriting.  They  say  she  will  not,  or  can  not, 
understand  how  to  form  her  letters.  I have  examined  closely 
into  this.  It  is  true  she  widtes  slowly,  stiffly  if  you  like  ; 
but  the  hand  is  neither  timid,  nor  without  character.  The 
French  language  is  not  my  department:  but  I have  taught 
her  something  of  it,  in  the  step-by-step  fashion  ; and  this 
she  understands  easily.  Indeed,  it  is  singular  that  she 
knows  a great  deal,  and  knows  it  well  too  ; and  yet,  when 
she  is  asked  a question,  it  seems  as  if  she  knew  nothing. 

“To  conclude  generalh',  I should  say  she  learns  nothing 
like  a person  who  is  being  educated ; but  she  learns  like  one 
who  is  to  educate,  — not  like  a pupil,  but  like  a future 
teacher.  Your  ladyship  may  think  it  strange  that  I,  as  an 
educator  and  a teacher,  can  find  no  higher  praise  to  give  to 
any  one  than  by  a comparison  with  myself.  I may  leave  it 
to  your  own  good  sense,  to  your  deep  knowledge  of  the 
world  and  of  mankind,  to  make  the  best  of  mj*  most  inade- 
quate, but  well-intended,  expressions.  You  may  satisfy 
yourself  that  you  have  much  happiness  to  promise  yourself 
from  this  child.  I commend  myself  to  your  ladyship  ; and  I 
beseech  you  to  permit  me  to  write  to  you  again,  as  soon  as 
I see  reason  to  believe  that  I have  any  thing  important  or 
agreeable  to  communicate.’’ 

This  letter  gave  Charlotte  great  pleasure.  The  contents 
of  it  agreed  very  nearly  with  the  notions  which  she  had  her- 
self conceived  of  Ottilie.  At  the  same  time,  she  could  not 
help  smiling  at  the  excessive  interest  of  the  assistant,  which 
seemed  greater  than  the  insight  into  a pupil’s  excellence 
usually  calls  forth.  In  her  quiet,  unprejudiced  way  of  look- 
ing at  things,  this  relation,  among  others,  she  was  contented 
- to  permit  to  lie  before  her  as  a possibility  : she  could  value 
the  interest  of  so  sensible  a man  in  Ottilie,  having  learned, 
among  the  lessons  of  her  life,  to  see  how  highly  true  regard 
is  to  be  prized,  in  a world  where  indifference  or  dislike  are 
the  common,  natural  residents. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


133 


CHAPTER  rV. 

The  topographical  chart  of  the  property  and  its  environs 
was  completed.  It  was  executed  on  a considerable  scale  ; 
the  character  of  the  particular  localities  was  made  intelligible 
by  various  colors  ; and,  by  means  of  a trigonometrical  sur- 
vey, the  captain  had  been  able  to  arrive  at  a very  fair  exact- 
ness of  measurement.  He  had  been  rapid  in  his  work. 
There  was  scarcely  ever  any  one  who  could  do  with  less 
sleep  than  this  most  laborious  man  ; and,  as  his  day  was 
always  devoted  to  an  immediate  purpose,  every  evening 
something  had  been  done. 

“Let  us  now,’’  he  said  to  his  friend,  “go  on  to  what 
remains  for  us,  — to  the  statistics  of  the  estate.  We  shall 
have  a good  deal  of  work  to  get  through  at  the  beginning  ; 
and  afterwards  we  shall  come  to  the  farm-estimates,  and 
much  else  which  will  naturally  arise  out  of  them.  Only  we 
must  have  one  thing  distinctly  settled  and  adhered  to. 
Every  thing  which  is  properly  business  we  must  keep  care- 
fully separate  from  life.  Business  requires  earnestness  and 
method  : life  must  have  a freer  handling.  Business  demands 
the  utmost  stringency  and  sequence : in  life,  inconsecutive- 
ness is  frequently  necessary,  indeed,  is  charming  and  grace- 
ful. Jf  you  are  firm  in  the  first,  you  can  afford  yourself 
more  liberty  in  the  second ; while,  if  you  mix  them,  you  will 
find  the  free  interfering  with,  and  breaking  in  upon,  the 
fixed.” 

In  these  sentiments  Edward  felt  a slight  reflection  upon 
himself.  Though  not  naturally  disorderly,  he  could  never 
bring  himself  to  arrange  his  papers  in  their  proper  places. 
What  he  had  to  do  in  connection  with  others  was  not  kept 
separate  from  what  only  depended  on  himself.  Business  got 
mixed  up  with  amusement,  and  serious  work  with  recreation. 
Now,  however,  it  was  easy  for  him,  with  the  help  of  a friend, 
who  would  take  the  trouble  upon  himself  ; and  a second  “ I ” 
worked  out  the  separation,  to  which  the  single  “I”  was 
always  unequal. 

In  the  captain’s  wing,  they  contrived  a depository  for  what  ■ 
concerned  the  present,  and  an  archive  for  the  past.  Here  they 
brought  all  the  documents,  papers,  and  notes  from  their  various 
hiding-places  — rooms,  drawers,  and  boxes — with  the  utmost 
speed.  Harmony  and  order  were  introduced  into  the  wilder- 
ness, and  the  different  packets  were  marked  and  registered 


134 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


in  their  several  pigeon-holes.  They  found  all  they  wanted  in 
greater  completeness  even  than  they  had  expected  ; and  here 
an  old  clerk  was  found  of  no  slight  service,  who  for  the  whole 
day  and  part  of  the  night  never  left  his  desk,  and  with  whom, 
till  then,  Edward  had  been  always  dissatisfied. 

“1  should  not  know  him  again,”  he  said  to  his  friend, 
“ the  n an  is  so  hand}?  and  useful.” 

“ T1  it,”  replied  the  captain,  “is  because  we  give  him 
nothing  fresh  to  do  till  he  has  finished,  at  his  convenience, 
what  he  has  already  ; and  so,  as  you  perceive,  he  gets  through 
a great  deal.  If  you  disturb  him,  he  becomes  useless  at 
onee.” 

Spending  their  days  together  in  this  way,  they  never  neg- 
lected isiting  Charlotte  regularly  in  the  evenings.  If  there 
was  nc  party  from  the  neighborhood,  as  was  often  the  case, 
they  re  id  and  talked,  principally  on  subjects  connected  with 
■ the  improvement  of  the  condition  and  comfort  of  social  life. 

Charlotte,  always  accustomed  to  make  the  most  of  oppor- 
tunities, not  only  saw  her  husband  pleased,  but  found  per- 
sonal advantages  for  herself.  Various  domestic  arrangements, 
which  she  had  long  wished  to  make,  but  which  she  did  not 
know  exactly  how  to  set  about,  were  managed  for  her  through 
the  contrivance  of  the  captain.  Her  domestic  medicine- 
chest,  hitherto  but  poorly  furnished,  was  enlarged  and 
enriched  ; and  Charlotte  herself,  with  the  help  of  good  books 
and  personal  instruction,  was  put  in  the  way  of  being  able 
to  exercise  her  disposition  to  be  of  practical  assistance  more 
frequently  and  more  efficiently  than  before. 

In  providing  against  accidents,  which,  though  common,  yet 
only  too  often  find  ns  unprepared,  they  thought  it  especially 
necessary  to  have  at  hand  whatever  is  required  for  the 
recovery  of  drowning  men,  — accidents  of  this  kind,  from  the 
number  of  canals,  reservoirs,  and  waterworks  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, being  of  frequent  occurrence.  This  department 
the  captain  took  expressly  into  his  own  hands ; and  the 
observation  escaped  Edward,  that  a case  of  this,  kind  had 
made  a very  singular  epoch  in  the  life  of  his  friend.  The 
latter  made  no  reply,  but  seemed  to  be  trying  to  escape  from 
•a  painful  recollection.  Edward  immediately  stopped ; and 
Charlotte,  who,  as  well  as  he,  had  a general  knowledge  of 
the  stoiy,  took  no  notice  of  the  expression. 

“These  preparations  are  all  exceedingly  valuable,”  said 
the  captain  one  evening.  “ Now,  however,  we  have  not  got 
the  one  thing  which  is  most  essential,  — a sensible  man  who 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


135 


understands  how  to  manage  it  all.  I know  an  army  surgeon, 
whom  I could  exactly  recommend  for  the  place.  You  might 
get  him  at  this  moment,  on  easy  terms.  He  is  highly  distin- 
guished in  his  profession,  and  has  frequently  done  more  for 
me  in  the  treatment,  even  of  violent  inward  disorders,  than 
celebrated  physicians.  Help  upon  the  spot  is  the  thing  you 
often  most  want  in  the  country.” 

He  was  written  for  at  once  ; and  Edward  and  ( ;harlotte 
were  rejoiced  to  find  so  good  and  necessary  an  object 
on  which  to  expend  so  much  of  the  money  which  they  set 
apart  for  such  accidental  demands  upon  them. 

Thus  Charlotte,  too,  found  means  of  making  use.  for  her 
purposes,  of  the  captain’s  knowledge  and  practical  skill ; and 
she  began  to  be  quite  recouciled  to  his  presence,  and  to  feel 
easy  about  any  consequences  that  might  ensue.  She  com- 
monly prepared  questions  to  ask  him  ; among  other  tilings,  it 
was  one  of  her  anxieties  to  provide  against  whatever  was 
prejudicial  to  health  and  comfort,  — against  poisons  and  such 
like.  The  lead-glazing  on  the  china,  the  verdigris  which 
formed  about  her  copper  and  bronze  vessels,  etc.,  had  long 
been  a trouble  to  her.  She  got  him  to  tell  her  about  these  ; 
and,  naturally,  they  often  had  to  fall  back  on  the  first  ele- 
ments of  medicine  and  chemistry. 

An  accidental  but  welcome  occasion  for  entertainment  of 
this  kind  was  given  by  an  inclination  of  Edward  to  read 
aloud,  tie  had  a particularly  clear,  deep  voice,  and  earlier 
in  life  had  earned  himself  a pleasant  reputation  for  his  feel- 
ing and  lively  recitations  of  works  of  poetry  and  oratory.  At 
this  time  he  was  occupied  with  other  subjects  ; and  the  books 
which,  for  some  time  past,  he  had  been  reading,  were  either 
chemical,  or  on  some  other  branch  of  natural  or  technical 
science. 

One  of  his  especial  peculiarities  — which,  by  the  by,  he 
very  likely  shares  with  a number  of  his  fellow-creatures  — 
was,  that  he  could  not  bear  to  have  any  one  looking  at  the 
page  from  behind  him  while  reading.  In  eai’ly  life,  wdien  he 
used  to  read  poems,  plays,  or  stories,  this  had  been  the  natu- 
ral consequence  of  the  desire  which  the  reader  feels,  like  the 
poet  or  the  actor  or  the  story-teller,  to  make  surprises,  to 
pause,  to  excite  expectation ; and  this  sort  of  effect  was 
naturally  defeated  when  a third  person’s  eyes  could  run  on 
before  him,  and  see  what  was  coming.  On  such  occasions, 
therefore,  he  was  accustomed  to  place  himself  in  such  a posi- 
tion that  no  one  could  get  behind  him.  With  a party  of  only 


136 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


three,  this  was  unnecessary  ; and  as  with  tlie  present  sub- 
ject there  was  no  opportunity  for  exciting  feelings  or  giving 
the  imagination  a surprise,  he  did  not  take  any  particular 
pains  to  protect  himself. 

One  evening  he  had  placed  himself  carelessly,  and  Char- 
lotte happened  by  accident  to  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  page. 
His  old  impatience  was  aroused  : he  turned  to  her,  and  said, 
almost  unkindly,  — ^ 

“I  do  wish,  once  for  all,  }mu  would  leave  off  doing  a thing 
so  out  of  taste  and  so  disagreeable.  When  I read  aloud  to 
a person,  is  it  not  the  same  as  if  I was  telling  him  something 
by  word  of  mouth?  The  written,  the  printed,  word  is  in  the 
place  of  my  own  thoughts,  of  my  own  heart.  If  a window 
were  broken  into  my  brain  or  into  my  heart,  and  if  the  man 
to  whom  I am  counting  out  my  thoughts,  or  delivering  my 
sentiments,  one  by  one,  knew  already  beforehand  exactly 
what  was  to  come  out  of  me,  should  I take  the  trouble  to 
put  them  into  words  ? When  anybody  looks  over  m}*  book, 

I alwa3's  feel  as  if  I were  being  torn  in  two.” 

Charlotte’s  tact,  in  whatever  circle  she  might  be,  large  or 
small,  was  remarkable  ; and  she  was  able  to  set  aside  disagree- 
able or  excited  expressions  without  appearing  to  notice  them. 
When  a conversation  grew  tedious,  she  knew  how  to  interrupt 
it ; when  it  halted,  she  could  set  it  going.  And  this  time  her 
good  gift  did  not  forsake  her. 

“I  am  sure  you  will  forgive  me  my  fault,”  she  said, 
“when  I tell  you  what  it  was  this  moment  which  came  over 
me.  I heard  ^mu  reading  something  about  aflinities  : and  I 
thought  direct!}^  of  some  relations  of  mine,  two  of  whom  are 
just  now  occupying  me  a great  deal.  Then  my  attention 
went  back  to  the  book.  I found  it  was  not  about  living 
things  at  all,  and  I looked  over  to  get  the  thread  of  it  right 
again . ’ ’ 

“ It  was  the  comparison  which  led  you  wrong  and  confused 
jmu,”  said  Edward.  “ The  subject  is  nothing  but  earths  and 
minerals.  But  man  is  a true  Narcissus : he  delights  to  see 
his  own  image  everywhere  ; and  he  spreads  himself  under- 
neath the  universe,  like  the  amalgam  behind  the  glass.” 
“Quite  true,”  continued  the  captain.  “That  is  the  way 
in  which  he  treats  every  thing  external  to  himself.  His  wis- 
dom and  his  foil}',  his  will  and  his  caprice,  he  attributes  alike 
to  the  animal,  the  plant,  the  elements,  and  the  gods.” 

“Would  .you,”  said  Charlotte,  “if  it  is  not  taking  you 
awaj'  too  much  from  the  immediate  subject,  tell  me  briefly 
what  is  meant  here  b.v  affinities?  ” 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


137 


“ I shall  be  very  glad  indeed,”  replied  the  captain,  to  whom 
Charlotte  had  addressed  herself.  “ That  is,  I will  tell  you  as 
well  as  I can.  My  ideas  on  the  subject  date  ten  years  back : 
whether  the  scientific  world  continues  to  think  the  same  about 
it,  I cannot  tell.” 

“It  is  most  disagreeable,”  cried  Edward,  “that  one  cannot 
nowadays  learn  a thing  once  for  all,  and  have  done  with  it. 
Our  forefathers  could  keep  to  what  they  were  taught  when 
they  were  young ; but  we  have,  every  five  years,  to  make 
revolutions  with  them,  if  we  do  not  wish  to  drop  altogether 


7e  women  need  not  be  so  particular,”  said  Charlotte; 
ana,  to  speak  the  truth,  I only  want  to  know  the  meaning 
of  the  word.  There  is  nothing  more  ridiculous  in  society 
than  to  misuse  a strange  technical  word ; and  I only  wish 
you  to  tell  me  in  what  sense  the  expression  is  made  use  of  in 
connection  with  these  things.  What  its  scientific  application 
is,  I am  quite  contented  to  leave  to  the  learned,  who,  by  the 
by,  as  far  as  I have  been  able  to  observe,  do  not  find  it  easy 
to  agree  among  themselves.” 

“Whereabouts  shall  we  begin,”  said  Edward,  after  a 
pause,  to  the  captain,  “ to  come  most  quickly  to  the  point?  ” 
The  latter,  after  thinking  a little  while,  replied  shortly,  — 

“ You  must  let  me  make  what  will  seem  a wide  sweep  : we 
shall  be  on  our  subject  almost  immediatel}".” 

Charlotte  laid  her  work  aside,  promising  the  fullest  atten- 
tion. 

The  captain  began,  — 

“ In  all  natural  objects  with  which  we  are  acquainted,  we 
observe  immediately  that  they  have  a certain  relation  to  them- 
selves. It  may  sound  ridiculous  to  be  asserting  what  is 
obvious  to  every  one  ; but  it  is  only  by  coming  to  a clear 
understanding  together  about  what  we  know,  that  we  can 
advance  to  what  we  do  not  know.” 

“ I think,”  interrupted  Edward,  “ we  .can  make  the  thing 
more  clear  to  her,  and  to  ourselves,  with  examples.  Conceive 
water  or  oil  or  quicksilver : among  these  you  wiU  see  a'j 
certain  oneness,  a certain  connection  of  their  parts  ; and  this/ 
oneness  is  never  lost,  except  through  force  or  some  otlierf 
determining  cause.  Let  the  cause  cease  to  operate,  and  at 
once  the  parts  unite  again.” 

“Unquestionably,”  said  Charlotte,  “that  is  plain:  rain- 
drops readily  unite  and  form  streams  ; and,  when  we  were 
children,  it  was  our  delight  to  play  with  quicksilver,  and 


t)f  fashion.” 


138 


ELFXTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


wonder  at  the  little  globules  splitting  and  parting,  and  run- 
ning into  one  another.” 

” And  here,”  said  the  captain,  “ let  me  just  cursorily  men- 
tion one  remarkable  thing : I mean,  that  the  full,  complete 
correlation  of  parts  Which  the  fluid  state  makes  possible, 
shows  itself  distinctly  and  universally  in  the  globular  form. 
The  falling  water-diop  is  round  ; you  yourself  spoke  of  the 
globules  of  quicksilver  ; and  a drop  of  melted  lead  let  fall,  if 
it  has  time  to  harden  before  it  reaches  the  ground,  is  found 
at  the  bottom  in  the  shape  of  a ball.” 

“Let  me  try  and  see,”  said  Charlotte,  “whether  I can 
understand  where  you  are  bringing  me.  As  every  thing  has 
a reference  to  itself,  so  it  must  have  some  relation  to  others.” 
“And  that,”  interrupted  Edward,  “will  be  different 
according  to  the  natural  differences  of  the  things  themselves. 
Sometimes  they  will  meet  like  friends  and  old  acquaintances  : 
they  will  come  rapidly  together,  and  unite  without  either 
having  to  alter  itself  at  all, — as  wine  mixes  with  water. 
Others,  again,  will  remain  as  strangers  side  by  side ; and  no 
amount  of  mechanical  mixing  or  forcing  will  succeed  in  com- 
bining them.  Oil  and  water  may  be  shaken  up  together  ; and 
the  next  moment  they  are  separate  again,  each  by  itself.” 

“ One  can  almost  fancy,”  said  Charlotte,  “that  in  these 
simple  forms  one  sees  people  that  one  is  acquainted  with ; 
one  has  met  with  just  such  things  in  the  societies  amongst 
which  one  has  lived  ; and  the  strangest  likenesses  of  all  with 
these  soulless  creatures,  are  in  the  masses  in  which  men  stand 
divided  one  against  the  other,  in  their  classes  and  profes- 
sions,— the  nobility  and  the  third  estate,  for  instance,  or 
soldiers  and  civilians.” 

“Then,  again,”  replied  Edward,  “as  these  are  united 
together  under  common  laws  and  customs,  so  there  are  inter- 
mediate members  in  our  chemical  world,  which  will  combine 
elements  that  are  mutuallj’  repulsive.” 

“ Oil,  for  instance,”  said  the  captain,  “ we  make  combine 
with  water  with  the  help  of  alkalies  ” — 

“ Do  not  go  on  too  fast  with  your  lesson,”  said  Charlotte. 
“Let  me  see  that  I keep  step  with  jmu.  Are  we  not  here 
arrived  among  the  afiinities?  ” 

“ Exactly,”  replied  the  captain : “we  are  on  the  point  of 
apprehending  them  in  all  their  power  and  distinctness  v such 
natures  as,  when  they  come  in  contact,  at  once  lay  hold  of 
each  other,  and  mutually  affect  one  another,  we  speak  of  as 
having  an  affinity  one  for  the  other.  "With  the  alkalies  and 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


139 


acids,  for  instance,  the  affinities  are  strikingly  marked.  They 
are  of  opposite  natures  : very  likel}"  their  being  of  opposite 
natures  is  the  secret  of  their  effect  on  one  another, — they  seek 
one  another  eagerly  out,  lay  hold  of  each  other,  modify  each 
other’s  character,  and  form  in  connection  an  entirely  new 
substance.  There  is  lime,  you  remember,  which  shows  the 
strongest  inclination  for  all  sorts  of  acids,  — a distinct  desire 
of  combining  with  them.  As  soon  as  our  chemical  chest 
arrives,  we  can  show  you  a number  of  entertaining  experi- 
ments, which  will  give  you  a clearer  idea  than  words  and 
names  and  technical  expressions.” 

“ It  appears  to  me,’’  said  Charlotte,  “ that,  if  you  choose  to~’' 
call  these  strange  creatures  of  yours  related,  the  relationship 
is  not  so  much  a relationship  of  blood,  as  of  soul  or  of  spirit. 

It  is  the  way  in  which  we  see  all  genuinely  deep  friendships 
arise  among  men  : opposite  peculiarities  of  disposition  being 
what  best  makes  internal  union  possible.  But  I will  wait 
to  see  what  you  can  really  show  me  of  these  mysterious 
proceedings;  and  for  the  present,”  she  added,  turning  to 
Edward,  “I  will  promise  not  to  disturb  you  any  more  in 
your  reading.  You  have  taught  me  enough  of  what  it  is 
about  to  enable  me  to  attend  to  it.” 

‘‘No,  no,”  replied  Edward:  “now  that  you  have  once 
stirred  the  thing,  you  shall  not  get  off  so  easily.  It  is  just 
the  most  complicated  cases  which  are  the  most  interesting. 

In  these  you  come  first  to  see  the  degrees  of  the  affinities,  to 
watch  them  as  their  power  of  attraction  is  weaker  or  stronger, 
nearer  or  more  remote.  Affinities  only  begin  really  to  inter-  {/ 
est  when  they  bring  about  separations.” 

“ IVliat ! ” cried  Charlotte,  “ is  that  miserable  word  which 
unhappily  we  hear  so  often  nowadays  in  the  world,  — is 
that  to  be  found  in  nature’s  lessons  too?  ” ' 

“Most  certainly,”  answered  Edward:  “the  title  with 
which  chemists  were  supposed  to  be  most  honorably  distin- 
guished was,  artists  of  separation.” 

“ It  is  not  so  any  more,”  replied  Charlotte  ; “ and  it  is  well 
that  it  is  not.  Uniting  is  a higher  art,  and  it  is  a higher 
merit.  An  artist  of  union  is  what  we  should  welcome  in 
every  province  of  the  universe.  However,  as  we  are  on 
the  subject  again,  give  me  an  instance  or  two  of  what  you 
mean.” 

“IVe  had  better  keep,”  said  the  captain,  “to  the  same 
instances  of  which  we  have  already  been  speaking.  Thus, 
what  we  call  limestone  is  a more  or  less  pure  calcareous  earth 


140 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


in  combination  with  a delicate  acid,  which  is  familiar  to  us  in 
the  form  of  a gas.  Now,  if  we  place  a piece  of  this  stone  in 
diluted  sulphuric  acid,  this  will  take  possession  of  the  lime, 
and  appear  with  it  in  the  form  of  gj’psum,  the  gaseous  acid 
at  the  same  time  going  off  in  vapor.  Here  is  a case  of 
'seiiaration  • a combination  arises,  and  we  believe  ourselves 
now  justified  in  applying  to  it  the  words  ‘ elective  affinity  ; ’ 
it  really  looks  as  if  one  relation  had  been  deliberately  chosen 
in  preference  to  another.” 

“Forgive  me,”  said  Charlotte,  “as  I forgive  the  natural 
philosopher.  I cannot' see  any  choice  in  this  : I see  a natural 
necessity  rather,  and  scarcely  that.  After  all,  it  is,  perhaps, 
merely  a case  of  opportunity.  Opiiortunity  makes  relations 
as  it  makes  thieves  ; and,  as  long  as  the  talk  is  onlj'  of  natu- 
ral substances,  the  choice  appears  to  me  to  be  altogether  in 
the  hands  of  tlie  chemist  who  brings  the  creatures  together. 
Once,  however,  let  them  be  brought  together,  and  then  God 
have  mercy  on  them.  In  the  present  case,  I cannot  help 
being  sorry  for  the  poor  acid  gas,  which  is  driven  out  up  and 
down  infinity  again.” 

“ The  acid’s  business,”  answered  the  captain,  “ is  now  to 
get  connected  with  water,  and  so  serve  as  a mineral  fountain 
for  the  refreshing  of  both  the  healthy  and  sick.” 

“ That  IS  very  well  for  the  gypsum  to  say,”  said  Charlotte. 
“ The  gypsum  is  all  right,  is  a body,  is'  provided  for.  The 
other  poor,  desolate  creature  may  have  trouble  enough  to  go 
through  before  it  can  find  a second  home  for  itself.” 

“ I am  much  mistaken,”  said  Edward,  smiling,  “ if  there 
be  not  some  little  arrihre  pensee  behind  this.  Confess  your 
wickedness  ! You  mean  me  by  your  lime  : the  lime  is  laid 
hold  of  by  the  captain,  in  the  form  of  sulphuric  acid,  torn 
away  from  your  agreeable  society,  and  metamorphosed  into 
a refractory  gj^psura.” 

“ If  your  conscience  prompts  you  to  make  such  a reflec- 
tion,” replied  Charlotte,  “I  certainly  need  not  distress 
mj’self.  These  comparisons  are  pleasant  and  eutertainiug ; 
and  who  is  there  that  does  not  like  playing  wiih  analogies? 
But  man  is  raised  very  many  steps  above  these  elements ; 
and,  if  he  has  been  somewhat  liberal  with  such  fine  words  as 
‘election’  and  ‘ electivje  affinities,’  he  will  do  well  to  turn 
back  again  into  himself,  and  take  the  opportunity  of  consid- 
ering carefully  the  value  and  meaning  of  such  expressions. 
Unhappily,  we  know  cases  enough  where  an  a])parently 
indissoluble  connection  between  two  persons  has.  by  the 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


141 


accidental  introduction  of  a third,  been  utterly  destroyed, 
aud  one  or  the  other  of  the  once  happily  united  pair  been 
driven  out  into  the  wilderness.” 

“ Then,  you  see  how  much  more  gallant  the  chemists  are,” 
said  Edward.  “They  at  once  add  a fourth,  that  neither 
may  go  away  empty.” 

“Quite  so,”  replied  the  captain.  “And  those  are  the 
cases  which  are  really  most  important  and  remarkable,  — 
cases  where  this  attraction,  this  affinity,  this  separating  and 
combining,  can  be  exhibited,  the  two  pairs  severally  crossing 
each  other ; where  four  creatures,  connected  previously,  as 
two  and  two,  are  brought  into  contact,  and  at  once  forsake 
their  first  combination  to  form  into  a second.  In  this  for- 
saking and  embracing,  this  seeking  and  flying,  we  believe 
that  we  are  indeed  observing  the  effects  of  some  higher 
determination  : we  attribute  a sort  of  will  and  choice  to  such 
creatures,  and  feel  really  justified  in  using  technical  words, 
and  speaking  of  ‘elective  affinities.’  ” 

“ Give  me  an  instance  of  this,”  said  Charlotte. 

“ Such  things  ought  not  to  be  settled  with  words,”  replied 
the  captain.  “ As  I said  before,  as  soon  as  I can  show  you 
the  experiment,  I can  make  it  all  intelligible  and  pleasant  for 
you.  For  the  present,  I can  give  you  nothing  but  horrible 
scientific  expressions,  which  at  the  same  time  will  give  you 
no  idea  about  the  matter.  You  ought  yourself  to  see  these 
substances  which  seem  so  dead,  and  which  are  j et  so  full  of 
inward  energy  and  force,  at  work  before  your  eyes.  You 
should  observe  them  with  a real  personal  interest.  Now  they 
seek  each  other  out,  attract  each  other,  seize,  crush,  devour, 
destroy,  each  other,  and  then  suddenly  re-appear  again  out 
of  their  combinations,  and  come  forward  in  fresh,  renovated, 
unexpected  form  : thus  you  will  comprehend  how  we  attri- 
bute to  them  a sort  of  immortality  ; how  we  speak  of  them 
as  having  sense  and  understanding  ; because  we  feel  our  own 
senses  to  be  insufficient  to  observe  them  adequately,  aud  our 
reason  too  weak  to  follow  them.” 

“I  grant,”  said  Fkhvard,  “that  the  strange  scientific 
nomenclature,  to  persons  who  have  not  been  reconciled  to  it 
by  a direct  acquaintance  with  or  understanding  of  its  object, 
must  seem  unpleasant,  even  ridiculous  ; but  we  can  easily, 
just  for  once,  contrive  with  symbols  to  illustrate  what  we 
are  speaking  of.” 

“ If  you  do  not  think  it  looks  pedantic,”  answered  the 
captain,  “ I can  put  my  meaning  together  with  letters. 


142 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


Suppose  an  A connected  so  closely  -with  a B that  all  sorts 
of  means,  even  violence,  have  been  made  use  of  to  separate 
them,  without  effect.  Then  suppose  a C in  exactly  the  same 
position  with  respect  to  D.  Bring  the  two  pairs  into  contact  : 
A will  fling  himself  on  D,  C on  B,  without  its  being  possible 
to  say  which  had  first  left  its  first  connection,  or  made  the 
first  move  towards  the  second.” 

“Now,  then,”  interposed  Edward,  “till  we  see  all  this 
with  our  eyes,  wm  will  look  upon  the  formula  as  an  analogy, 
out  of  which  we  can  devise  a lesson  for  immediate  use.  You 
stand  for  A,  Charlotte,  and  I am  your  B : really  and  trul}"  I 
cling  to  you,  I depend  on  jmu,  and  follow  you,  just  as  B 
does  with  A.  C is  obviously  the  captain,  who  at  present  is 
in  some  degree  withdrawing  me  from  you.  So  now  it  is  only 
just,  that,  if  you  are  not  to  be  left  to  solitude,  a D should  be 
found  for  you  ; and  that  is  unquestionably  the  amiable  little 
ladv,  Ottilie.  You  will  not  hesitate  any  longer  to  send  and 
fetch  her.” 

“All  right,”  replied  Charlotte;  “although,  in  my  opin- 
ion, the  example  does  not  exactly  fit  our  case.  However,  we 
have  been  fortunate,  at  any  rate,  in  to-day  for  once  having 
met  all  together ; and  these  natural  or  elective  affinities 
have  served  to  unite  us  more  intimately.  I will  tell  you, 
that,  since  this  afternoon  I have  made  up  my  mind  to  send 
for  Ottilie.  My  faithful  housekeeper,  on  whom  I have 
hitherto  depended  for  every  thing,  is  going  to  leave  me 
shortly,  to  be  married.  This  is  my  motive,  as  far  as  I am 
concerned.  What  has  decided  me  on  account  of  Ottilie.  you 
shall  read  to  me.  I will  not  again  look  on  whilst  you  are 
reading.  Indeed,  the  contents  of  these  pages  are  already 
known  to  me.  But  read,  read  ! ” 

With  these  words,  she  produced  a letter,  and  handed  it  to 
Edward. 


CHAPTER  V. 

LETTER  OF  THE  LADY  SUPERIOR. 

“Your  ladyship  will  forgive  the  brevity  of  my  present 
letter.  The  public  examinations  are  but  just  concluded, 
and  I have  to  communicate  to  all  the  parents  and  guardians 


ELECTIVE  AFEESTITIES. 


143 


the  progress  our  pupils  have  made  during  the  past  year.  I 
can  afford  to  be  brief,  having  to  say  much  in  few  words. 
Your  ladyship’s  daughter  has  proved  herself  first,  in  every 
sense  of  the  word.  The  testimonials  I enclose,  and  her 
own  letter,  in  which  she  will  detail  to  you  the  prizes  she  has 
won,  and  the  happiness  she  feels  in  her  success,  will  surely 
please,  and,  I hope,  delight  you.  For  myself,  it  is  the  less 
necessary  that  I should  say  much,  because  I see  that  there 
will  soon  be  no  more  occasion  to  keep  with  us  a J’oung  lady 
so  far  advanced.  I send  my  respects  to  your  ladyship,  and 
in  a short  time  shall  take  the  liberty  of  offering  j^ou  my 
opinion  as  to  what  may  be  of  most  advantage  to  her  in 
future. 

“ My  good  assistant  will  tell  you  about  Ottilie.” 

LETTER  OF  THE  ASSISTANT. 

‘ ‘ Our  revered  superior  leaves  it  to  me  to  write  to  you  of 
Ottilie,  partly  because,  with  her  ways  of  thinking  about  it, 
it  would  be  painful  to  her  to  say  what  has  to  be  said  ; 
partly  because  she  herself  requires  some  apology  she  would 
rather  have  me  make  for  her. 

“ Knowing  only  too  well  how  little  able  good  Ottilie  is  to 
show  out  what  lies  in  her,  and  what  she  is  capable  of,  I was 
all  along  afraid  of  this  public  examination.  I was  the  more 
uneasy,  as  it  was  to  be  of  a kind  which  does  not  admit  of 
any  special  preparation  ; and,  even  if  it  had  been  conducted 
as  usual,  Ottilie  never  can  be  prepared  to  make  a display. 
The  result  has  justified  m3'  anxiety  only  too  well.  She  has  not 
received  an3'  prize : she  is  not  even  amongst  those  whose 
names  have  been  mentioned  with  approbation.  I need  not 
go  into  details.  As  for  handwriting,  the  letters  of  the  other 
girls  were  not  so  well  formed,  but  their  strolces  were  much 
more  free.  In  arithmetic  they  were  all  quicker  than  she  ; 
and  in  the  more  difficult  problems,  which  she  does  the  best, 
there  was  no  examination.  In  French  she  was  outshone 
and  out-talked  b}'  many ; and  in  history  she  was  not  ready 
with  her  names  and  dates.  In  geography  there  was  a want 
of  attention  to  the  political  divisions  ; and  for  what  she 
could  do  in  music,  there  was  neither  time  nor  quiet  enough 
for  her  few  modest  melodies  to  gain  attention.  In  drawing 
she  certainly  would  have  gained  the  prize  : her  outlines  were 
clear,  and  the  execution  most  careful  and  full  of  spirit ; 
unhappily  she  had  chosen  too  wide  a subject,  and  had  not 
completed  it. 


144 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


“After  the  pupils  had  been  dismissed,  the  examiners  con- 
sulted together  ; and  we  teachers  were  partially  admitted  into 
the  council.  I very  soon  observed  that  of  Ottilie  nothing 
was  said  ; or,  when  her  name  was  mentioned,  it  was  done 
with  indifference,  if  not  with  downright  disapproval.  I 
hoped  to  obtain  some  favor  for  her  by  a candid  description 
of  what  she  was  ; and  I ventured  it  with  the  greater  earnest- 
ness, partly  because  I was  only  speaking  my  real  convic- 
tions, and  partly  because,  when  I was  young,  I had  been  in 
the  same  unfortunate  case.  I was  listened  to  with  atten- 
tion ; but,  as  soon  as  I had  ended,  the  presiding  examiner 
said  to  me  very  kindly  but  laconically,  ‘IVe  presume  capa- 
bilities : they  are  to  be  converted  into  accomplishments. 
This  is  the  aim  of  all  education.  It  is  what  is  distinctly 
intended  by  all  who  have  the  care  of  children,  and  silently 
and  indistinctly  by  the  children  themselves.  This  also  is 
tlie  object  of  examinations,  when  both  teachers  and  pupils 
are  on  their  trial.  From  what  we  learn  of  you,  we  may 
entertain  good  hopes  of  the  young  lady  ; and  it  is  to  your 
own  credit  also  lhat  you  have  paid  so  much  attention  to  your 
pupil’s  capabilities.  If  in  the  coming  year  you  can  develop 
these  into  accomplishments,  neither  yourself  nor  your  pupil 
shall  fail  to  receive  }’Our  due  praise.’ 

“ I had  made  up  my  mind  to  what  must  follow  all  this; 
but  there  was  something  worse  which  I had  not  anticipated, 
and  which  had  soon  to  be  added  to  it.  Our  good  superior, 
who,  resembling  a trusty  shepherd,  could  not  bear  to  have 
one  of  her  flock  lost,  or,  as  was  the  case  here,  one  intrusted 
to  her  charge  undistinguished,  could  not,  when  the  examiners 
were  gone,  conceal  her  displeasure,  and  said  to  Ottilie,  who 
was  quietly  standing  by  the  window,  while  the  others  were 
exulting  over  their  prizes,  ‘ Tell  me,  for  Heaven’s  sake  I how 
can  a person  look  so  stupid,  if  she  is  not  so?’  Ottilie 
replied  quite  calmly,  ‘Forgive  me,  my  dear  mother:  I have 
my  headache  again  to-day,  and  it  is  very  painful.’  Kind 
and  sympathizing  as  she  generally  is,  the  superior  this  time 
answered,  ‘Who  should  know  that?’  and  tm'ued  angiily 
away. 

“ Now,  it  is  true,  no  one  can  believe  it;  for  Ottilie  never 
alters  the  expression  of  her  countenance,  nor  have  I seen 
her  move  her  hand  to  her  temple. 

“ Nor  was  this  all.  Your  ladyship’s  daughter,  who  is  at 
all  times  sufficiently  lively  and  impetuous,  was  wild  and 
overbearing  after  her  triumph  of  to-day.  She  ran  from 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


145 


room  to  room  with  her  prizes  and  testimonials,  and  shook 
them  in  Ottilie’s  face.  ‘ You  have  come  badly  oif  this 
morning  ! ’ she  cried.  Ottilie  replied  in  her  calm,  quiet  way, 
‘This  is  not  the  last  day  of  examination.’  — ‘ But  you  will 
always  be  the  last,  for  all  that ! ’ cried  the  other,  and  ran 
away. 

“ No  one  except  myself  saw  that  Ottilie  was  disturbed. 
She  has  a way,  when  she  experiences  any  sharp,  unpleasant 
emotion  which  she  wishes  to  resist,  of  showing  it  in  the 
unequal  color  of  her  face : the  left  cheek  becomes  for  a 
moment  flushed,  while  the  right  turns  pale.  I perceived  this 
symptom,  and  could  not  help  saying  something.  I took 
our  superior  aside,  and  spoke  seriously  to  her  about  it.  The 
excellent  lady  acknowledged  that  she  had  been  wrong.  AVe 
considered  the  whole  affair,  and  talked  it  over  at  great  length 
together : and,  not  to  weary  your  ladj’ship,  I will  tell  you  at 
once  the  desire  with  which  we  concluded  ; namely,  that  you 
will  have  Ottilie  stay  with  you  for  a while.  Our  reasons  you 
will  yourself  readily  perceive.  If  you  consent,  I will  say 
more  to  you  on  the  manner  in  which  I think  she  should  be 
treated.  Yonr  daughter,  we  may  expect,  will  soon  leave  us  ; 
and  we  shall  then  with  pleasure  welcome  Ottilie  back. 

“One  thing  more,  which  another  time  I might  forget  to 
mention  ; I have  never  seen  Ottilie  eager  for  any  thing,  or 
at  least  ask  pressingly  for  any  thing ; but  there  have  been 
occasions,  however  rare,  when,  on  the  other  hand,  she  has 
wished  to  decline  things  which  had  been  pressed  upon  her ; 
and  she  does  it  with  a gesture  which  to  those  who  have 
caught  its  meaning  is  irresistible.  She  raises  her  hands, 
presses  the  palms  together,  and  draws  them  against  her 
breast,  leaning  her  body  a little  forward  at  the  same  time, 
and  turns  such  a look  on  the  person  urging  her,  that  he  will 
gladly  forego  what  he  may  have  wished  of  her.  If  your 
ladyship  ever  sees  this  attitude,  as  with  your  treatment  of 
her  it  is  not  likely  that  you  will,  think  of  me,  and  spare 
Ottilie.” 

Edward  read  these  letters  aloud,  not  without  smiles,  and 
shakes  of  the  head.  Naturally,  too,  there  were  observations 
made  on  the  persons  and  on  the  position  of  the  affair. 

“ ’Tis  well ! ” Edward  cried  at  last : “ it  is  decided.  She 
is  coming.  You,  my  love,  are  provided  for ; and  now  we 
can  get  forward  with  our  work.  It  is  becoming  highly  neces- 
sary for  me  to  remove  to  the  right  wing,  where  the  captain 


146 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


resides ; evenings  and  mornings  are  the  time  for  us  best  to 
work  together : and  then  yon,  on  your  side,  will  have  admir- 
able room  for  yourself  and  Ottilie.” 

Charlotte  made  no  objection,  and  Edward  sketched  out 
the  method  in  which  they  should  live.  One  of  his  remarks 
was,  “ It  is  really  very  polite,  on  the  part  of  your  niece,  to 
be  subject  to  a slight  pain  on  the  left  side  of  her  head.  I 
have  it  frequently  on  the  right.  If  we  happen  to  be  afflicted 
at  the  same  time,  and  sit  opposite  one  another,  I leaning  on 
my  right  elbow,  and  she  on  her  left,  and  our  heads  turned 
to  opposite  sides,  and  resting  on  our  hands,  what  a pretty 
pair  of  pictures  we  shall  make  ! ” 

The  captain  thought  that  might  be  dangerous.  “No, 
no!”  cried  out  Edward.  “Only  do  you,  my  dear  friend, 
take  care  of  the  D ; for  what  will  become  of  B,  if  poor  C is 
taken  away  from  it?  ” 

“That,  I should  have  thought,  would  have  been  evident 
enough,”  replied  Charlotte. 

“ And  it  is,  indeed,”  cried  Edward  : “he  would  turn  back 
to  his  A,  to  his  Alpha  and  Omega.”  And  he  sprung  up, 
and,  taking  Charlotte  in  his  arms,  pressed  her  to  his  breast. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  carriage  which  brought  Ottilie  drove  up  to  the  door. 
Charlotte  went  out  to  receive  her.  The  dear  girl  ran  to 
meet  her,  threw  herself  at  her  feet,  and  embraced  her  knees. 

“Why  such  humility?”  said  Charlotte,  a little  em- 
barrassed, and  endeavoring  to  raise  her  from  the  ground. 

“ It  is  not  meant  for  humility,”  Ottilie  answered,  without 
moving  from  the  position  in  which  she  had  placed  herself : 
“I  am  only  thinking  of  the  time  when  I could  not  reach 
higher  than  to  your  knees,  and  when  I had  just  learned  to 
know  how  you  loved  me.” 

She  rose,  and  Charlotte  embraced  her  warmly.  She  was 
introduced  to  the  gentlemen,  and  was  at  once  treated  with 
especial  courtesj"  as  a visitor.  Beauty  is  a welcome  guest 
everywhere.  She  appeared  attentive  to  the  conversation, 
without  taking  part  in  it. 

Tlie  next  nioniing  Edward  said  to  Charlotte,  “What  an 
agreeable,  entertaining  girl  she  is  ! ” 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


147 


“Entertaining!”  answered  Charlotte,  with  a smile: 
“why,  she  has  not  opened  her  lips  yet.” 

“Indeed!”  said  Edward,  as  he  seemed  to  bethink  him- 
self : “ that  is  very  strange.” 

Charlotte  had  to  give  the  new  comer  but  a very  few  hints 
on  the  management  of  the  household.  Ottilie  saw  rapidly 
all  the  arrangements  ; and,  what  was  more,  she  felt  them. 
She  comprehended  easily  what  was  to  be  provided  for  the 
whole  party,  and  what  for  each  particular  member  of  it. 
Every  thing  was  done  with  the  utmost  punctuality  : she  knew 
how  to  direct,  without  appearing  to  be  giving  orders  ; and, 
when  any  one  had  left  any  thing  undone,  she  at  once  set  it 
right  herself. 

As  soon  as  she  had  found  how  much  time  she  would  have 
to  spare,  she  begged  Charlotte  to  divide  her  hours  for  her ; 
and  to  these  she  adhered  exactly.  She  worked  at  what  was 
set  before  her  in  the  way  which  the  assistant  had  described 
to  Charlotte.  They  let  her  alone.  It  was  but  seldom  that 
Charlotte  interfered.  Sometimes  she  changed  her  pens  for 
others  which  had  been  written  with,  to  teach  her  to  make 
bolder  strokes  in  her  handwriting ; but  these,  she  found, 
would  be  soon  cut  sharp  and  fine  again. 

The  ladies  had  agreed  to  speak  nothing  but  French  when 
alone  ; and  Charlotte  insisted  on  it  the  more,  as  Ottilie  was 
more  talkative,  when  speaking  a foreign  language,  when  she 
had  been  told  it  was  her  duty  to  exercise  herself  in  it.  In 
this  way  she  often  said  more  than  she  seemed  to  intend. 
Charlotte  was  particularly  pleased  with  a description,  most 
complete,  but  at  the  same  time  most  charming  and  amiable, 
which  she  gave  her  one  day,  by  accident,  of  the  school. 
She  soon  felt  her  to  be  a delightful  companion,  and  hoped 
to  find,  ere  long,  an  attached  friend  in  her. 

At  the  same  time  she  looked  over  again  the  more  early 
accounts  which  had  been  sent  her  of  Ottilie,  to  refresh  her 
recollection  with  the  opinion  the  superior  and  the  assistant 
had  formed  about  her,  and  compare  them  with  her  in  her 
own  person.  For  Charlotte  was  of  opinion  that  we  cannot 
too  quickly  become  acquainted  with  the  character  of  those 
with  whom  we  have  to  live,  that  we  may  know  what  to 
expect  of  them,  where  we  may  hope  to  do  any  thing  in  the 
way  of  improvement  with  them,  and  what  we  must  make  up 
our  minds,  once  for  all,  to  tolerate  and  let  alone. 

This  examination  led  her  to  nothing  new,  indeed ; but 
much  she  already  knew  became  of  greater  meaning  and  im- 


148 


ELECTIVE  AFFIMTIES. 


portance.  Ottilie’s  moderation  in  eating  and  drinking,  for 
instance,  became  a real  distress  to  her. 

The  next  thing  on  which  the  ladies  were  employed  was 
Ottilie’s  toilet.  Charlotte  wished  her  to  appear  in  clothes  of 
a richer  and  more  recherche  sort ; and  at  once  the  clever, 
active  girl  herself  cut  out  the  stuff  which  had  been  previously 
sent  to  her,  and,  with  a very  little  assistance  from  others, 
was  able,  in  a short  time,  to  dress  most  tastefully.  The 
new  fashionable  dresses  set  off  her  figure.  An  agreeable 
person,  it  is  true,  will  show  through  all  disguises ; but  we 
always  fancy  it  looks  fresher  and  more  graceful  when  its 
peculiarities  appear  under  some  new  drapery.  And  thus, 
from  the  moment  of  her  first  appearance,  she  became  more 
and  more  a delight  to  the  eyes  of  all  who  beheld  her.  As 
the  emerald  refreshes  the  sight  with  its  beautiful  hues,  and 
exerts,  it  is  said,  a beneficent  influence  on  that  noble  sense  : 
so  does  human  beauty  work  with  far  greater  potency  on  both 
the  outward  and  inward  sense ; whoever  looks  upon  it  is 
charmed  against  the  breath  of  evil,  and  feels  in  harmony 
with  himself  and  with  the  world. 

In  many  wa}"s,  therefore,  the  party  had  gained  by  Ottilie’s 
arrival.  The  captain  and  Edward  kept  regularly  to  the 
hours,  even  to  the  minutes,  for  their  general  meeting  to- 
gether. They  never  kept  the  others  waiting  for  them,  either 
for  dinner  or  tea,  or  for  their  walks  ; and  they  were  in  less 
haste,  especially  in  the  evenings,  to  leave  the  tables  This 
did  not  escape  Charlotte’s  observation : she  watched  them 
both,  to  see  whether  one,  more  than  the  other,  was  the  occa- 
sion of  it.  But  she  could  not  perceive  any  difference. 
They  had  both  become  more  companionable.  In  their  con- 
versation they  seemed  to  consider  what  was  best  adapted  to 
interest  Ottilie,  what  was  most  on  a level  with  her  capaci- 
ties and  her  general  knowledge.  If  she  left  the  room  when 
they  were  reading  or  telling  stories,  they  would  wait  till  she 
returned.  They  had  grown  softer,  and  altogether  more 
united. 

In  return  for  this,  Ottilie’s  anxiety  to  be  of  use  increased 
every  day : the  more  she  came  to  understand  the  house,  its 
inmates,  and  their  circumstances,  the  more  eagerly  she 
entered  into  every  thing,  caught  every  look  and  every  mo- 
tion ; half  a word,  a sound,  was  enough  for  her.  With  her 
calm  attentiveness,  and  her  easy,  unexcited  activity,  she 
was  always  the  same.  Sitting,  rising  up.  going,  coming, 
fetching,  carrying,  returuiug  to  her  place  again,  it  was  all  in 


elp:ctive  affinities. 


149 


the  most  perfect  repose ; a constant  change,  a constant 
agreeable  movement ; while,  at  the  same  time,  she  went 
about  so  lightly  that  her  step  was  almost  inaudible. 

This  becoming  obligingness  in  Ottilie  gave  Charlotte  the 
greatest  pleasure.  There  was  one  thing,  however,  which 
she  did  not  exactly  like,  of  which  she  had  to  speak  to  her. 
“ It  is  very  polite  in  jmn,”  she  said  one  day  to  her,  “ when 
people  let  any  thing  fall  from  their  hand,  to  be  so  quick  in 
stooping  and  picking  it  up  for  them  ; at  the  same  time,  it  is 
a sort  of  confession  that  they  have  a right  to  require  such 
attention  ; and,  in  the  world,  we  are  exi)ected  to  be  careful 
to  whom  we  pay  it.  1 will  not  prescribe  any  rule  towards 
women.  You  are  young.  To  those  above  you,  and  older 
than  you,  services  of  this  sort  are  a.  duty;  towards  your 
equals,  they  are  polite  ; to  those  younger  than  yourself  and 
your  inferiors,  you  may  show  yourself  kind  and  good-natured 
by  such  things,  — only  it  is  not  becoming  in  a young  lady 
to  do  them  for  men.” 

“I  will  try  to  get  rid  of  this  habit,”  replied  Ottilie:  “I 
think,  however,  you  will  in  the  mean  time  foi'give  me  for  my 
want  of  manners,  when  1 tell  you  how  I came  by  it.  We 
were  taught  history  at  school.  I have  not  retained  as  much  of 
it  as  I ought,  for  I never  knew  what  use  I was  to  make  of  it ; 
a few  little  things,  however,  made  a deep  impression  upon  me, 
among  which  was  the  following  : When  Charles  the  First  of 
England  was  standing  before  his  so-called  judges,  the  gold 
top  came  off  the  stick  which  he  had  in  his  hand,  and  fell 
down.  Accustomed  as  ho  had  been  on  such  occasions  to 
have  every  thing  done  for  him,  he  seemed  to  look  round,  and 
expect  that  this  tinn?,  too,  some  one  would  do  him  this  little 
service.  No  one  stirred,  and  he  stooped  down  for  it  himself. 
It  struck  me  as  so  piteous,  that  from  that  moment  I have 
never  been  able  to  see  any  one  let  a thing  fall,  without  picking 
it  up  myself.  But  of  course,  as  it  is  not  alwaj’s  proper,  and 
as  I cannot,”  she  continued,  smiling,  “tell  my  stoi-y  every 
time  I do  it,  in  future  I wdll  try  and  contain  myself.” 

In  the  mean  time  the  fine  arrangements  the  two  friends 
had  been  led  to  make  for  themselves  went  uninterruptedly 
forward.  Every  day  they  found  something  new  to  think 
about  and  undertake. 

One  day  as  they  were  walking  together  through  the  village, 
they  had  to  remark  with  dissatisfaction  how  far  behindhand 
it  was  in  order  and  cleanliness,  compared  to  villages  where 
the  inhabitants  were  compelled  by  the  expense  of  building- 
I ground  to  be  careful  about  such  thinss. 


150 


ELECTIVE  AEFIXriTES. 


“ You  remember  a wish  we  once  expressed  when  we  were 
travelling  in  Switzerland  together,”  said  the  captain,  ‘‘that 
we  might  have  the  laying  out  some  country  park,  and  how 
beautiful  we  would  make  it  by  introducing  into  some  village 
situated  like  this,  not  the  Swiss  style  of  building,  but  the 
Swiss  order  and  neatness  which  so  much  improve  it.” 

“ And  how  well  it  would  answer  here  ! The  hill  on  which 
the  castle  stands  slopes  down  to  that  projecting  angle.  The 
village,  you  see,  is  built  in  a semicircle,  regularly  enough, 
just  opposite  to  it.  The  brook  runs  between.  It  is  liable  to 
floods ; and  do  observe  the  way  the  people  set  about  pro- 
tecting themselves  from  them  : one  with  stones,  another  with 
stakes  ; the  next  puts  up  a boarding,  and  a fourth  tries  beams 
and  planks ; no  one,  of  course,  doing  any  good  to  another 
with  his  arrangement,  but  only  hurting  himself  and  the  rest 
too.  And  then,  there  is  the  road  going  along  just  in  the 
clumsiest  way  possible,  — up  hill  and  down,  through  the 
water,  and  over  the  stones.  If  the  people  would  only  lay 
their  hands  to  the  business  together,  it  would  cost  them 
nothing  but  a little  labor  to  run  a semicircular  wall  along 
here,  take  the  road  in  behind  it,  raising  it  to  the  level  of  the 
houses,  and  so  give  themselves  a fair  open  space  in  front, 
making  the  whole  place  clean,  and  getting  rid,  once  for  all, 
in  one  good  general  work,  of  all  their  little  trifling  ineflfectual 
makeshifts.” 

“ Let  us  try  it,”  said  the  captain,  as  he  ran  his  eyes  over 
the  lay  of  the  ground,  and  saw  quickly  what  was  to  be 
done. 

“ I can  undertake  nothing  in  company  with  peasants  and 
shopkeepers,”  replied  Edward,  “unless  I may  have  unre- 
stricted authority  over  them.” 

“You  are  not  so  wrong  in  that,”  returned  the  captain: 
“ I have  experienced  too  much  trouble  myself  in  life  in 
matters  of  that  kind.  How  difficult  it  is  to  prevail  on  a man 
to  venture  boldly  on  making  a sacrifice  for  an  after-advan- 
tage ! How‘  hard  to  get  him  to  desire  an  end,  and  not  to 
disdain  the  means ! So  many  people  confuse  means  with 
ends : they  keep  hanging  over  the  first,  without  having  the 
other  before  their  eyes.  Every  evil  is  to  be  cured  at  the 
place  where  it  comes  to  the  surface  ; and  they  will  not  trouble 
themselves  to  look  for  the  cause  which  produces  it.  or  the 
remote  effect  which  results  from  it.  This  is  why  it  is  so 
difficult  to  get  advice  listened  to,  especially  among  the  many : 
they  can  see  clearly  enough  from  day  to  day,  but  their  scope 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


151 


seldom  reaches  beyond  the  mon’ow ; and,  if  it  comes  to  a 
point  where  with  some  general  arrangement  one  person  will 
gain  w'hile  another  will  lose,  there  is  no  prevailing  on  them 
to  strike  a balance.  Works  of  public  advantage  can  only 
be  carried  through  by  an  uncontrolled  absolute  authority.” 
While  they  were  standing  and  talking,  a man  came  up 
beggiug.  He  looked  more  impudent  than  if  he  were  really 
in  want ; and  Edward,  who  was  annoyed  at  being  interrupted, 
after  two  or  three  fruitless  attempts  to  get  rid  of  him  by  a 
gentler  refusal,  spoke  sharply  to  him.  The  fellow  began  to 
grumble  and  mutter  abusively  : he  went  off  with  short  steps, 
talking  about  the  right  of  beggars.  It  was  all  very  well  to 
refuse  them  au  alms,  but  that  was  no  reason  why  they  should 
be  insulted.  A beggar,  and  everybody  else  too,  was  as  much 
under  God’s  protection  as  a lord.  It  put  Edward  out  of  all 
patience. 

The  captain,  to  pacify  him,  said,  “ Let  us  make  use  of 
this  as  au  occasion  for  extending  our  rural  police  arrange- 
ments to  such  cases.  We  are  bound  to  give  away  money  ; 
but  we  do  better  in  not  giving  it  in  person,  especially  at 
home.  We  should  be  moderate  and  unifonn  in  every  thing, 
in  our  charities  as  in  all  else  : too  great  liberality  attracts 
beggars  instead  of  helping  them  on  their  way.  At  the  same 
time,  there  is  no  harm  when  one  is  on  a journey,  or  passing 
through  a strange  place,  in  appearing  to  a poor  man  in  the 
street  izi  the  form  of  a chance  deity  of  fortune,  and  making 
him  some  present  which  shall  surprise  him.  The  position 
of  the  village  and  of  the  castle  makes  it  easy  for  us  to  put 
our  charities  here  on  a proper  footing.  I have  thought  about 
it  before.  The  public-house  is  at  one  end  of  the  village,  a 
respectable  old  couple  live  at  the  other.  At  each  of  these 
places  deposit  a small  sum  of  money  ; and  let  every  beggar, 
not  as  he  comes  in,  but  as  he  goes  out,  receive  something. 
Both  houses  lie  on  the  roads  which  lead  to  the  castle,  so 
that  any  one  who  goes  there  can  be  referred  to  one  or  the 
other.  ’ ’ 

“ Come,”  said  Edward,  “ we  will  settle  that  on  the  spot. 
The  exact  sum  can  be  made  up  another  time.” 

They  went  to  the  innkeeper,  and  to  the  old  couple  ; and  the 
thing  was  done. 

“I kuow  very  well,”  Edward  said,  as  they  were  walking  up 
I the  hill  to  the  castle  together,  “that  every  thing  in  this  world 
depends  on  distinctness  of  idea,  and  firmness  of  purpose. 
Your  judgment  of  what  my  wife  has  been  doing  in  the  parK 


152 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


was  entirely  right,  and  you  have  already  given  me  a hint 
how  it  might  be  improved.  I will  not  deny  that  I told  her 
of  it.” 

“So  I have  been  led  to  suspect,”  replied  the  captain, 
“ and  I could  not  approve  of  your  having  done  so.  You  have 
perplexed  her.  She  has  left  off  doing  any  thing,  and  on  this 
one  subject  she  is  vexed  with  us.  She  avoids  speaking  of 
it.  She  has  never  since  invited  us  to  go  with  her  to  the 
summer-house,  although  at  odd  hours  she  goes  up  there  with 
Ottilie.” 

“We^^iust  not  allow  ourselves  to  be  deterred  b}"  that,” 
answeret.  Edward.  “ If  I am  once  convinced  about  any  thing 
good,  wh’ch  could  and  should  be  done,  I can  never  rest  till  E 
see  it  done.  are  clever  enough  at  other  times  in  intro- 

ducing what  we  want  into  the  general  conversation  : suppose 
we  have  out  some  descriptions  of  English  parks,  with  copper* 
plates,  for  our  evening’s  amusement.  Then  we  can  follow 
with  your  plan.  We  will  treat  it  first  problematically,  and 
as  if  we  were  only  in  jest.  There  will  be  uo  difficulty  in 
passing  into  earnest.” 

The  scheme  was  concerted,  and  the  books  were  opened. 
In  each  group  of  designs  they  first  saw  a ground-plan  of  the 
spot,  with  the  general  character  of  the  landscape,  drawn  in 
its  rude,  natural  state.  Then  followed  others,  showing  the 
changes  which  liad  been  produced  by  art,  to  employ  and  set 
off  tlie  natural  advantages  of  the  locality.  Fi'om  these  to 
their  own  property  and  their  own  grounds  the  transition  was 
easy. 

Everybody  was  ])lcased.  The  chart  which  the  captain  had 
sketched  was  brought  and  spread  out.  The  only  difficulty 
was,  that  they  could  not  entirely"  free  themselves  of  the 
plan  in  which  Charlotte  had  begun.  However,  an  easier 
wa}'  up  the  hill  was  found  : a lodge  was  suggested  to  be  built 
on  the  height  at  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  which  was  to  have 
an  especial  reference  to  the  castle.  It  was  to  form  a con- 
spicuous object  from  the  castle  windows  ; and  from  it  the 
spectator  was  to  be  able  to  overlook,  both  the  castle  aud  the 
garden. 

The  captain  had  carefully  considered  it  all.  and  taken  his 
measurements  ; and  now  he  brought  up  again  the  village-road 
and  the  wall  by  the  brook,  and  the  ground  which  was  to  be 
raised  behind  it. 

“Here  you  sec.”  said  he,  “while  I make  this  charming 
walk  up  the  height.  I gain  exactly  the  quantity  of  stone 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


153 


which  I require  for  that  wall.  Let  one  piece  of  work  help 
the  other,  and  both  will  be  carried  out  most  satisfactorily  and 
most  rapidl}'.” 

“ But  now,”  said  Charlotte,  “ comes  my  side  of  the  busi- 
ness. A certain  definite  outlay  of  money  will  have  to  be 
made.  We  ought  to  know  how  much  will  be  wanted  for  such 
a purpose,  and  then  we  can  apportion  it  out  : so  much  work, 
and  so  much  money,  if  not  by  weeks,  at  least  by  mouths. 
The  cash-box  is  under  my  charge.  I pay  the  biUs,  and  I 
keep  the  accounts.” 

“ You  do  not  appear  to  have  overmuch  confiden  e in  us,” 
said  Edward. 

“I  have  not  much  in  arbitraiy  matters,”  Ch^ilotte  an- 
swered. “ AVhere  it  is  a case  of  inclination,  Ve  women 
know  better  how  to  control  ourselves  than  you.” 

It  was  settled  : the  dispositions  were  made,  and  the  work 
was  begun  at  once. 

The  captain  being  always  on  the  spot,  Charlotte  was  an 
almost  daily  witness  of  the  strength  and  clearness  of  his 
understanding.  He,  too,  learned  to  know  her  better ; and  it 
became  easy  for  them  both  to  work  together,  and  thus  bring 
something  to  completeness.  It  is  with  work  as  with  dancing, 
— persons  who  keep  the  same  step  must  grow  indispensable 
to  one  another.  Out  of  this  a mutual  kindly  feeling  will 
necessarily  arise ; and  that  Charlotte  had  a real  kind  feeling 
towards  the  captain,  after  she  came  to  know  him  better,  was 
sufficient!}'  proved  by  her  allowing  him  to  destroy  her  pretty 
seat,  — which  in  her  first  plans  she  had  taken  such  pains  in 
ornamenting,  — because  it  was  in  the  way  of  his  own,  without 
experiencing  the  slightest  feeling  about  the  matter. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Now  that  Charlotte  was  occupied  with  the  captain,  it  was 
a natural  consequence  that  Edward  should  attach  himself 
more  to  Ottilie.  Independently  of  this,  indeed,  for  some  time 
past  he  had  begun  to  feel  a silent  kind  of  attraction  towards 
her.  Obliging  and  attentive  she  was  to  every  one,  but  his 
self-love  whispered  that  towards  him  she  was  particularly  so. 
She  had  observed  his  little  fancies  about  his  food.  She  knew 


154 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


exactly  what  things  he  liked,  and  the  way  in  which  he  liked 
them  to  be  prepared  ; the  quantity  of  sugar  which  he  liked  in 
his  tea,  and  so  on.  Moreover,  she  was  particularly  care- 
ful to  prevent  draughts,  about  which  he  was  excessively  sen- 
sitive ; and,  indeed,  about  which  with  his  wife,  who  could 
never  have  air  enough,  he  w^as  often  at  variance.  So,  too, 
she  had  come  to  know  about  fruit-gardens  and  flower-gardens  ; 
whatever  he  liked,  it  was  her  constant  effort  to  procure  for 
him,  and  to  keep  away  whatever  annoyed  him  ; so  that  very 
soon  she  grew  indispensable  to  him : she  became  like  his 
guardian  angel,  and  he  felt  it  keenly  whenever  she  was  ab- 
sent. Besides  all  this,  too,  she  appeared  to  become  more 
open  and  talkative  as  soon  as  they  were  alone  together. 

Edward,  as  he  advanced  in  life,  had  retained  something 
childish  about  himself,  which  corresponded  singularly  well 
with  the  youthfuluess  of  Ottilie.  They  liked  talking  of  early 
times,  when  they  had  first  seen  each  other ; and  these  remi- 
niscences led  them  up  to  the  first  epoch  of  Edward’s  affection 
for  Charlotte.  Ottilie  declared  that  she  remembered  them 
both  as  the  handsomest  pair  at  court ; and  when  Edward 
would  question  the  possibility  of  this,  when  she  must  have 
been  so  exceedingly  young,  she  insisted  that  she  recollected 
one  particular  incident  as  clearly  as  possible.  He  had  come 
into  the  room  where  her  aunt  was  ; and  she  had  hid  her  face 
in  Charlotte’s  lap,  not  from  fear,  but  from  a childish  sur- 
prise. She  might  have  added,  because  he  had  made  so 
strong  an  impression  upon  her,  — because  she  had  liked  him 
so  much. 

While  they  were  occupied  in  this  way,  much  of  the  busi- 
ness which  the  two  friends  had  undertaken  together  had 
come  to  a standstill ; so  that  they  found  it  necessary  to 
inspect  how  things  were  going  on.  — to  work  up  a few  designs 
and  get  letters  written.  For  this  purpose,  they  betook  them- 
selves to  their  oflice,  where  they  found  their  old  copyist  at 
his  desk.  They  set  to  work,  and  soon  gave  the  old  man 
enough  to  do,  without  observing  that  they  were  laying  many 
things  on  his  shoulders  which  at  other  times  they  had  always 
done  for  themselves.  At  the  same  time,  the  first  design  the 
captain  tried  would  not  answer  ; and  Edward  was  as  unsuc- 
cessful with  his  first  letter.  They  fretted  for  a while,  plan- 
ning and  erasing ; till  at  last  Edward,  who  was  getting  on 
the  worst,  asked  what  o’clock  it  was.  And  then  it  appeared 
that  the  captain  had  forgotten,  for  the  first  time  for  many 
years,  to  wind  up  his  chronometer ; and  they  seemed,  if  not 


ELECTIVE  affinities. 


155 


to  feel,  at  least  to  have  a dim  perception,  that  time  was  begin- 
ning to  be  indifferent  to  them. 

In  the  mean  while,  as  the  gentlemen  were  thus  rather  slack- 
ening in  their  energy,  the  activity  of  the  ladies  increased  all 
the  more.  The  every-day  life  of  a family,  composed  of  a 
given  number  of  persons,  is  shaped  out  of  necessary  circum- 
stances, may  easily  receive  into  itself  an  extraordinary  affec- 
tion, an  incipient  passion,  — may  receive  it  into  itself  as  into 
a vessel ; and  a long  time  may  elapse  before  the  new  ingre- 
dient produces  a visible  effervescence,  and  runs  foaming  over 
the  edge. 

With  onr  friends,  the  feelings  which  were  mntnally  arising 
had  the  most  agreeable  effects.  Their  dispositions  opened 
out,  and  a general  good-will  arose  out  of  the  several  individual 
affections.  Every  member  of  the  part}^  was  happy,  and  they 
each  shared  their  happiness  with  the  rest. 

Such  a temper  elevates  the  spirit  while  it  enlarges  the 
heart ; and  every  thing  which,  under  the  influence  of  it,  peo- 
ple do  and  undertake,  has  a tendency  towards  the  illimitable. 
The  friends  could  no  longer  remain  shut  up  at  home  : their 
walks  extended  themselves  farther  and  farther.  Edward 
would  hnny  on  before  with  Ottilie,  to  choose  the  path  or 
pioneer  the  way  ; and  the  captain  and  Charlotte  would  follow 
quietly  on  the  track  of  their  more  hasty  precursors,  talking 
on  some  grave  subject,  or  delighting  themselves  with  some 
spot  they  had  newly  discovered,  or  some  unexpected  natural 
beauty. 

One  day  their  walk  led  them  down  from  the  gate  at  the 
right  wing  of  the  castle,  in  the  direction  of  the  hotel,  and 
thence  over  the  bridge  towards  the  ponds,  along  the  sides  of 
which  they  proceeded  as  far  as  it  was  generally  thought 
possible  to  follow  the  water ; thickly  wooded  hills  sloping 
! directly  up  from  the  edge,  and  beyond  these  a wall  of  steep 
rocks,  making  farther  progress  difficult,  if  not  impossible. 

; But  Edward,  whose  hunting  experience  had  made  him 
1 thoroughly  familiar  with  the  spot,  pushed  forward  along  an 

; overgrown  path  with  Ottilie,  knowing  well  that  the  old  mdl 

could  not  be  far  off,  which  was  somewhere  in  the  middle  of 
i;  the  rocks  there.  The  path  was  so  little  frequented,  that  they 
I soon  lost  it ; and  for  a short  time  they  were  wandering  among 
I mossy  stones  and  thickets  : it  was  not  for  long,  however  ; the 
! noise  of  the  water-wheel  speedily  telling  them  that  the  place 
which  they  were  looking  for  was  close  at  hand,  stepping 
j forward  on  a point  of  rock,  they  saw  the  strange,  old,  dark, 


156 


ELECTIVE  ^FFIXITIES. 


wooden  building  in  the  hollow  before  them,  quite  shadowed 
over  with  precipitous  crags  and  huge  trees.  They  determined 
without  hesitation  to  descend  across  the  moss  and  the  blocks 
of  stone.  Edward  led  the  way  ; and  when  he  looked  back 
and  saw  Ottilie  following,  stepping  lightly,  without  fear  or 
nervousness,  from  stone  to  stone,  so  beautifully  balancing 
herself,  he  fancied  he  was  looking  at  some  celestial  creature 
floating  above  him : while  if,  as  she  often  did,  she  caught 
the  hand  which  in  some  difficult  spot  he  would  offer  her,  or 
if  she  supported  herself  on  his  shoulder,  then  he  was  left  in 
no  doubt  that  it  was  a very  exquisite  human  creature  who 
touched  him.  He  almost  wished  that  she  might  slip  or 
stumble,  that  he  might  catch  her  in  his  arms  and  press  her 
to  his  heart.  This,  however,  he  would  under  no  circumstances 
have  done,  for  more  than  one  reason.  He  was  afraid  to 
wound  her,  and  he  was  afraid  to  do  her  some  bodily  injuiw. 

What  the  meaning  of  this  could  be.  we  shall  immediately 
learn.  When  they  had  got  down,  and  were  seated  opposite 
each  other  at  a table  under  the  trees,  and  when  the  miller’s 
wife  had  gone  for  milk,  and  the  miller,  who  had  come  out  to 
them,  was  sent  to  meet  Charlotte  and  the  captain,  Edward, 
with  a little  embarrassment,  began  to  speak. 

“ I have  a request  to  make,  dear  Ottilie  : you  will  forgive 
me  for  asking  it,  if  you  will  not  grant  it.  You  make  no 
secret  (I  am  sure  you  need  not  make  any)  that  you  wear  a 
miniature  under  your  dress  against  your  breast.  It  is  the 
picture  of  your  noble  father,  whom  you  hardly  ever  knew  ; 
but  in  every  sense  he  deserves  a place  b^’  your  heart.  But, 
excuse  me,  the  picture  is  much  too  large  : and  the  metal 
frame  and  the  glass,  if  you  take  up  a child  in  your  arms,  if 
you  are  canying  any  thing,  if  the  candage  swings  A'iolently. 
if  we  are  pushing  through  bushes,  or  just  now.  as  we  were 
coming  down  these  rocks,  make  me  extremely  anxious  on 
your  account.  Any  unforeseen  blow,  a fall,  a touch,  may 
be  fatally  injurious  to  you  ; and  I am  terrified  at  the  possi- 
bility of  it.  For  my  sake  do  this  : put  away  the  picture,  not 
out  of  your  affections,  not  out  of  3’our  room  ; let  it  have  the 
brightest,  the  holiest  place  which  you  can  give  it : onh’  do  not 
W'ear  upon  j'our  breast  a thing  the  presence  of  which  seems 
to  me,  perhaps  from  an  extravagant  anxietjx  so  dangerous.” 

Ottilie  was  silent : while  he  was  speaking,  she  had  kept  her 
eyes  fixed  straight  before  her ; then,  without  hesitation  and 
without  haste,  with  a look  turned  moi-e  towards  heaven  than 
on  Edward,  she  unclasped  the  chain,  drew  out  the  pictiu-e, 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


157 


and  pressed  it  against  her  forehead,  and  then  reached  it  over 
to  her  friend,  with  the  words,  — 

‘ ‘ Keep  it  for  me  till  we  get  home  : I cannot  give  you  a 
better  proof  how  deeply  I thank  you  for  your  affectionate 
care.” 

He  did  not  venture  to  press  the  picture  to  his  lips ; but  he 
seized  her  hand,  and  raised  it  to  his  eyes.  They  were  per- 
haps two  of  the  most  beautiful  hands  which  had  ever  been 
clasped  together.  He  felt  as  if  a stone  had  fallen,  from  his 
heart,  as  if  a partition-wall  had  been  thrown  down  between 
him  and  Ottilie. 

Under  the  miller’s  guidance,  Charlotte  and  the  captain 
came  down  by  an  easier  path,  and  now  joined  them.  There 
w'as  the  meeting,  and  a happy  talk  ; and  then  they  took  some 
refreshments.  They  would  not  return  by  the  same  waj'  as 
\ they  came  ; and  Edward  struck  into  a rocky  path  on  the 
other  side  of  the  stream,  from  which  the  ponds  were  again 
to  be  seen.  They  made  their  way  along  it  with  some  effort, 
and  then  had  to  cross  a variety  of  wood  and  copse,  getting- 
glimpses,  on  the  land  side,  of  a number  of  villages,  and 
manor-houses  with  their  green  lawns  and  fruit-gardens ; 
while  very  near  them,  and  sweetly  situated  on  a rising 
ground,  a farm  lay  in  the  middle  of  the  wood.  From  a 
gentle  ascent,  they  had  a view  before  and  behind  which 
showed  them  the  richness  of  the  country  to  the  greatest 
advantage  ; and  then,  entering  a grove  of  trees,  they  found 
themselves,  on  again  emerging  from  it,  on  the  rock  opposite 
the  castle. 

They  came  upon  it  rather  unexpected^,  and  were  of 
j course  delighted.  They  had  made  the  circuit  of  a little 

, world  : they  were  standing  on  the  spot  where  the  new  build- 
ing was  to  be  erected,  and  were  looking  again  at  the  windows 
of  their  own  home. 

Thej^  went  down  to  the  summer-house,  and  sat  all  four  in 
I it  for  the  first  time  together  : nothing  was  more  natural  than 
j,  that  with  one  voice  it  should  be  proposed  to  have  the  way 
i they  had  been  that  day,  and  which,  as  it  was,  had  taken 
them  much  time  and  trouble,  property  laid  out  and  gravelled, 
so  that  people  might  loiter  along  it  at  their  leisure.  They 
j each  said  what  they  thought ; and  they  reckoned  up  that  the 
j circuit,  over  which  thej'  had.  taken  many  hours,  might  be 
j travelled  easily,  with  a good  road  all  the  way  round  to  the 
• castle,  in  a single  one. 

Already  a plan  was  being  suggested  for  shortening  the 


158 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


distance,  and  adding  a fresh  beauty  to  the  landscape,  by 
throwing  a bridge  across  the  stream,  below  the  mill,  where  it 
ran  into  the  lake,  when  Charlotte  brought  their  inventive 
imagination  somewhat  to  a standstill  by  putting  them  in 
mind  of  the  expense  which  such  an  undertaking  would 
involve. 

“There  are  ways  of  meeting  that  too,”  replied  Edward; 
“ we  have  only  to  dispose  of  that  farm  in  the  forest,  which 
is  so  pleasantl}^  situated,  and  which  brings  in  so  little  in  the 
way  of  rent : the  sum  which  will  be  set  free  will  more  than 
cover  what  we  shall  require  ; and  thus,  having  gained  an 
invaluable  walk,  we  shall  receive  the  interest  of  well-ex- 
pended capital  in  substantial  enjoyment,  instead  of.  as  now, 
in  the  summing  np  at  the  end  of  the  year,  vexing  and  fret- 
ting ourselves  over  the  pitiful  little  income  which  is  returned 
for  it.” 

Fiven  Charlotte,  with  all  her  prudence,  had  little  to  urge 
against  this.  There  had  been,  indeed,  a previous  intention 
of  selling  the  farm.  The  captain  was  ready  immediately 
with  a plan  for  breaking  up  the  ground  into  small  portions 
among  the  peasantry  of  the  forest.  Edward,  however,  had 
a simpler  and  shorter  way  of  managing  it.  Ilis  present 
steward  had  already  proposed  to  take  it  otf  his  hands : he 
was  to  pay  for  it  by  instalments,  and  so  gradually,  as  the 
money  came  in,  they  would  get  theii'  work  forward  from 
point  to  point. 

So  reasonable  and  prudent  a scheme  was  sure  of  universal 
approbation  ; and  they  began  already  in  prospect  to  see 
their  new  walk  winding  along  its  way.  and  to  imagine  the 
many  beautiful  views  and  charming  spots  which  they  hoped 
to  discover  in  its  neighborhood. 

To  bring  it  all  before  them  with  greater  fulness  of  detail, 
in  the  evening  they  produced  the  new  chart.  With  the  help 
of  this  they  went  over  again  the  way  that  they  had  come, 
and  found  various  places  where  the  walk  might  take  a rather 
different  direction  with  advantage.  Their  other  scheme  was 
now  once  more  talked  through,  and  connected  with  the  fresh 
design.  The  site  for  the  new  house  in  the  park,  opposite 
the  castle,  was  a second  time  examined  into  and  approved, 
and  fixed  upon  for  the  termination  of  the  intended  circuit. 

Ottilie  had  said  nothing  all  this  time.  At  length  Edward 
pushed  the  chart,  which  had  hitherto  been  lying  before  Char- 
lotte, across  to  her,  begging  her  to  give  her  opinion  : she 
still  hesitated  for  a moment.  Edward  in  his  gentlest  way 


ELFXTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


159 


again  pressed  her  to  let  them  know  what  she  thought : noth- 
ing had  as  yet  been  settled,  it  was  all  as  yet  in  embryo. 

“I  would  have  the  house  built  here,”  she  said,  as  she 
pointed  with  her  finger  to  the  highest  point  of  the  slope  on 
the  hill.  “It  is  true  you  cannot  see  the  castle  from  there, 
for  it  is  hidden  by  the  wood  ; but  for  that  very  reason  you 
find  yourself  in  another  quite  new  world : you  lose  village 
and  houses  and  all  at  the  same  time.  The  view  of  the 
ponds,  with  the  mill,  and  the  hills  and  mountains  in  the  dis- 
tance, is  singularly  beautiful.  I noticed  it  when  passing.” 

“She  is  right!”  Edward  cried:  “how  could  we  have 
overlooked  it?  This  is  what  you  mean,  Ottilie,  is  it  not?  ” 
He  took  a lead-pencil,  and  drew  a great  black  rectangular 
figure  on  the  summit  of  the  hill. 

It  pierced  the  captain’s  soul  to  see  his  carefully  and 
clearly  drawn  chart  disfigured  in  such  a way.  He  collected 
himself,  however,  after  a slight  expression  of  his  disap- 
proval, and  took  up  the.  idea.  “Ottilie  is  right,”  lie  said: 
“ we  ai’e  ready  enough  to  walk  any  distance  to  drink  tea  or 
eat  fish,  because  they  would  not  have  tasted  as  well  at  home  : 
we  require  change  of  scene  and  change  of  objects.  Your 
ancestors  showed  their  judgment  in  choosing  this  spot,  for 
their  castle  ; for  it  is  sheltered  from  the  wind,  with  the  con- 
veniences of  life  close  at  hand.  A place,  on  the  contrary, 
which  is  more  for  pleasure-parties  than  for  a regular  resi- 
dence would  do  very  well  there  ; and  in  the  fair  time  of  the 
year  the  most  agreeable  hours  may  be  spent  in  it.” 

The  more  they  talked  it  over,  the  more  conclusive  was 
their  judgment  in  favor  of  Ottilie  ; and  Edward  could  not 
conceal  his  triumph  that  the  thought  had  been  hers.  He 
was  as  proud  as  if  he  had  hit  upon  it  himself. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Early  the  following  morning,  the  captain  examined  the 
spot.  He  first  threw  off  a sketch  of  what  should  be  done  ; 
and  afterwards,  when  the  thing  had  been  more  completely 
decided  on,  he  made  a complete  design,  with  accurate  calcu- 
lations and  measurements.  It  cost  him  a good  deal  of  labor, 
and  the  business  connected  with  the  sale  of  the  farm  had  to 


160 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


be  gone  into  : so  that  both  the  gentlemen  now  found  a fresh 
impulse  to  activity. 

The  captain  made  Edward  observe  that  it  would  be  proper, 
indeed  that  it  would  be  a kind  of  duty,  to  celebrate  Char- 
lotte’s birthday  with  laying  the  foundation-stone.  Not  much 
was  wanted  to  overcome  Edward’s  disinclination  for  such 
festivities  ; for  he  quickly  recollected,  that,  a little  later, 
Ottilie’s  birthday  would  follow,  and  that  he  could  have  a 
magnificent  celebration  for  that. 

Charlotte,  to  whom  all  this  work  and  what  it  would  in- 
volve was  a sul)ject  for  much  serious  and  almost  anxious 
thought,  busied  herself  in  carefully  going  through  the -time 
and  outlay  which  it  was  calculated  would  be  expended  on  it. 
During  the  day  they  rarely  saw  each  other : so  that  the 
evenins;  meeting  w’as  looked  forward  to  with  all  the  more 
anxiety. 

Ottilie  was,  in  the  mean  time,  complete  mistress  of  the 
household ; and  how  could  it  be  otherwise,  with  her  quick, 
methodical  ways  of  working?  Indeed,  her  whole  mode  of 
thought  was  suited  better  to  home-life  than  to  the  world, 
and  to  a more  free  existence.  Edward  soon  observed  that 
she  onty  walked  about  with  them  out  of  a desire  to  please  ; 
that,  when  she  staid  out  late  with  them  in  the  evening,  it 
was  because  she  thought  it  a sort  of  social  duty  ; and  that 
she  would  often  find  a pretext  in  some  household  matter  for 
going  in  again,  — conseqnentlv,  he  soon  managed  so  to 
arrange  the  walks  they  took  together,  that  they  should  be 
at  home  before  sunset ; and  he  began  again,  what  he  had 
long  left  off,  to  read  aloud  poetry,  particularly  such  as  had 
for  its  subject  the  expression  of  a pure  but  passionate  love. 

They  ordinarily  sat  in  the  evening  in  the  same  places 
round  a small  table,  — Charlotte  on  the  sofa,  Ottilie  on  a 
chair  opposite  to  her,  and  the  gentlemen  on  each  side. 
Ottilie’s  place  was  on  Edward’s  right,  the  side  where  he  jnit 
the  candle  when  he  was  reading : at  such  times  she  would 
draw  her  chair  a little  nearer,  to  look  over  him  ; for  Ottilie 
also  trusted  her  own  e5’es  better  than  another  person’s  lips  ; 
and  Edward  would  then  always  make  a move  towards  her, 
that  it  might  be  as  easy  as  possible  for  her.  — indeed,  he 
would  frequently  make  longer  stops  than  necessary,  that  he 
might  not  turn  over  before  she  had  got  to  the  bottom  of  the 
page. 

Charlotte  and  the  captain  observed  this,  and  would  often 
look  at  each  other,  smiling ; but  they  were  both  taken  by 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


161 


surprise  at  another  symptom,  in  which  Ottilie’s  latent  feeling 
accidentally  displayed  itself. 

One  evening,  which  had  been  partly  spoiled  for  them  by  a 
tedious  visit,  Edward  proposed  that  they  should  not  separate 
so  early,  — he  felt  inclined  for  music,  — he  would  take  his 
flute,  which  he  had  not  done  for  many  days  past.  Charlotte 
looked  for  the  sonatas  they  generally  played  together,  and 
they  were  not  to  be  found.  Ottilie,  with  some  hesitation, 
said  she  had  taken  them  to  lier  room. 

“And  you  can,  you  will,  accompany  me  on  the  piano?” 
cried  Edward,  his  eyes  sparkling  with  pleasure.  “ I think 
perhaps  I can,”  Ottilie  answered.  She  brought  the  music, 
and  sat  down  to  the  instrument.  The  others  listened,  and 
were  sufficiently  surprised  to  hear  how  perfectly  Ottilie  had 
taught  herself  the  piece  ; but  far  more  sui’priscd  were  they 
at  the  way  in  which  she  contrived  to  adapt  herself  to  Ed- 
ward’s style  of  playing.  Adapt  herself  is  not  the  right 
expression : Charlotte’s  skill  and  power  enabled  her,  in 
order  to  please  her  husband,  to  keep  up  with  him  when  he 
played  too  fast,  and  hold  in  for  him  if  he  hesitated  ; but 
Ottilie,  who  had  several  times  heard  them  play  the  sonata 
together,  seemed  to  have  learned  it  according  to  the  idea  in 
which  they  accompanied  each  other : she  had  so  completely . 
made  his  defects  her  own,  that  a kind  of  living  whole  resulted 
from  it,  which  did  not  move,  indeed,  according  to  exact 
rule  ; but  the  effect  of  it  was  in  the  highest  degree  pleasant 
and  delightful.  The  composer  himself  would  have  been 
pleased  to  hear  his  work  disfigured  in  so  charming  a manner. 

Charlotte  and  the  captain  watched  this  strange,  unex- 
pected occurrence  in  silence,  with  the  kind  of  feeling  with 
which  we  often  observe  the  actions  of  children, — unable, 
exactly,  to  approve  of  them,  from  the  serious  consequences 
which  may  follow,  and  yet  without  being  able  to  find  fault, 
perhaps  with  a kind  of  envy.  I’or,  indeed,  the  regard  of 
these  two  for  one  another  was  growing  also,  as  well  as  that 
of  the  others  ; and  it  was,  perhaps,  onl}'  the  more  perilous 
because  they  were  both  more  staid,  more  certain  of  them- 
selves, and  better  able  to  restrain  themselves. 

The  captain  had  already  begun  to  feel  that  a habit  he 
could  not  resist  was  threatening  to  bind  him  to  Charlotte. 
He  forced  himself  to  stay  away  at  the  hour  when  she  com- 
monl}'  us 'd  to  be  at  the  works  ; by  getting  up  veiy  early  in 
the  morning,  he  contrived  to  finish  th.cre  whatever  he  had  to 
do,  and  retired  to  the  castle,  in  order  to  work  in  his  own 


162 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


room.  The  first  clay  or  two  Charlotte  thought  it  was  an 
accident : she  lookecl  for  him  in  every  place  where  she 
thought  he  might  possibly  be.  Then  she  thought  she  under- 
stood him,  and  admired  him  all  the  more. 

Avoiding,  as  the  captain  now  did,  being  alone  with  Char- 
lotte, the  more  industriously  did  he  labor  to  hurry  foi-ward 
the  preparations  for  keeping  her  rapidly  approaching  birthday 
with  all  splendor.  While  he  was  bnngiug  up  the  new  road 
from  below,  behind  the  village,  he  macle  the  men,  under 
pretence  that  he  wanted  stones,  begin  working  at  the  top  as 
well,  and  w'ork  down,  to  meet  the  others  ; and  he  had  calcu- 
lated his  arrangements  so  that  the  two  should  exactly  meet 
on  the  eve  of  the  day.  The  excavations  for  the  new  house 
w'ere  already  done : the  rock  was  blown  aw'a}’  with  gun- 
powder ; and  a fair  foundation-stone  had  been  hewn,  with  a 
hollow  chamber,  and  a flat  slab  adjusted  to  cover  it. 

This  outward  activity,  these  little  mysterious  purposes  of 
friendship,  prompted  by  feelings  they  were  obliged  to  repress 
more  or  less,  rather  prevented  the  little  party  when  together 
from  being  as  lively  as  usual.  Edward,  who  felt  that  there 
was  a sort  of  void,  one  evening  called  upon  the  captain  to 
fetch  his  violin,  — Charlotte  should  play  the  piano,  and  he 
/should  accompaii)'  her.  The  captain  was  unable  to  refuse 
' the  general  request ; and  they  executed  together  one  of  the 
most  difficult  pieces  of  music  with  an  ease  and  freedom  and 
feeling  which  could  not  but  afford  themselves,  and  the  two  who 
Avere  listening  to  them,  the  greatest  delight.  They  promised 
themselves  a frequent  repetition  of  it,  as  well  as  further 
practice  together.  “ They  do  it  better  than  we,  Ottilie,”  said 
Edward  : “ we  wdll  admire  them  — but  we  can  enjoy  ourselves 
together,  too.” 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  birthday  had  come,  and  eveiy  thing  was  ready.  The 
wall  was  all  complete  which  protected  the  raised  village-road 
against  the  water,  and  so  was  the  walk : passing  the  church, 
for  a short  time  it  followed  the  path  which  had  been  laid  out 
by  Charlotte,  and  then,  winding  upwards  among  the  rocks, 
inclined  first  under  the  summer-house  to  the  right,  and  then, 
after  a wide  sweep,  passed  back  above  it  to  the  right  again, 
and  so  by  degrees  out  on  to  the  summit. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


163 


^ A large  party  had  assembled  for  the  occasion.  They  went 
first  to  church,  where  they  found  the  whole  congregation  col- 
lected together  in  their  holiday  dresses.  After  service,  they 
filed  out  iu  order : first  the  boys,  then  the  young  men,  then 
the  old  ; after  them  came  the  party  from  the  castle,  with  their 
visitors  and  retinue  ; and  the  village  maidens,  young  girls, 
aud  women  brought  up  the  rear. 

At  the  turn  of  the  walk,  a raised  stone  seat  had  been  con- 
trived, where  the  captain  made  Charlotte  and  the  visitors  stop 
and  rest.  From  here  they  could  look  over  the  whole  distance 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end,  — the  troops  of  men  who 
had  gone  up  before  them,  the  file  of  women  following,  and 
now  drawing  up  to  where  they  were.  It  was  lovely  weather, 
and  the  whole  effect  was  singularly  beautiful.  Charlotte 
was  taken  by  surprise ; she  was  touched,  and  she  pressed 
the  captain’s  hand  warmly. 

They  followed  the  crowd,  who  had  slowly  ascended,  and 
were  now  forming  a circle  round  the  spot  where  the  future 
house  was  to  stand.  The  lord  of  the  castle,  his  family,  aud 
the  principal  strangers  were  now  invited  to  descend  into  the 
vault,  where  the  foundation-stone,  supported  on  one  side,  lay 
ready  to  be  let  down.  A well-dressed  mason,  a ti’owel  iu  one 
hand  and  a hammer  in  the  other,  came  forward,  aud,  with 
much  grace,  spoke  an  address  iu  A-erse,  of  which  in  prose  we 
can  give  but  an  imperfect  rendering. 

“Three  things,”  he  began,  “are  to  be  looked  to  in  a 
building  : that  it  stand  on  the  right  spot,  that  it  be  securely 
founded,  that  it  be  successfully  executed.  The  first  is  the 
business  of  the  master  of  the  house,  — his,  and  his  only.  As 
iu  the  city  the  prince  and  the  council  alone  determine  where 
a building  shall  be : so  in  the  country  it  is  the  right  of  the 
lord  of  the  soil  that  he  shall  say,  ‘ Here  my  dwelling  shall 
stand, — here,  and  nowhere  else.’  ” 

Edward  and  Ottilie  were  standing  opposite  one  another  as 
these  words  were  spoken,  but  they  did  not  veutiu’e  to  look 
up  and  exchange  glances. 

“To  the  third,  the  execution,  there  is  neither  art  nor  handi- 
craft which  must  not  in  some  way  contribute.  But  the  second, 
the  founding,  is  the  province  of  the  mason ; and,  boldly  to 
speak  it  out,  it  is  the  head  aud  front  of  all  the  undertaking. 
A solemn  thing  it  is,  aud  our  bidding  you  descend  hither  is 
full  of  meaning.  You  are  celebrating  your  festival  iu  the 
depth  of  the  earth.  Here,  within  this  narrow  excavation, 
you  show  us  the  honor  of  appearing  as  witnesses  of  our 


164 


ELFXTIYE  AFFINITIES. 


mysterious  craft.  Presently  we  shall  lower  down  this  care- 
fully hewn  stone  into  its  place  ; and  soon  these  earth-walls, 
now  ornamented  with  fair  and  worthy  persons,  will  be  no 
more  accessible,  but  w’ill  be  closed  in  forever. 

“ This  foundation-stone,  which  with  its  angles  typifies  the 
just  angles  of  the  building ; with  the  sharpness  of  its  mould- 
ing, the  regularity  of  it ; and  with  the  truth  of  its  lines  to  the 
horizontal  and  perpendicular,  the  uprightness  and  equal  height 
of  all  the  walls,  — we  mioht  now  without  more  ado  let  down  : 
jt  would  rest  in  its  place  with  its  own  weight.  But  even  here 
there  shall  not  fail  of  lime  and  means  to  bind  it.  For  as 
human  beings,  who  may  be  well  inclined  to  each  other  by 
nature,  yet  hold  more  firmly  together  when  the  law  cements 
them : so  are  stones  also,  whose  forms  may  already  fit  together, 
united  far  better  by  these  binding  forces.  It  is  not  seemly  to 
be  idle  amidst  the  busy,  and  here  you  will  not  refuse  to  be 
our  fellow-laborer.”  With  these  words  he  reached  the  trowel 
to  Charlotte,  who  threw  mortar  with  it  under  the  stone  : seA'- 
eral  of  the  others  were  then  desired  to  do  the  same,  and  then 
it  was  at  once  let  fall.  Upon  which  the  hammer  was  placed 
next  in  Charlotte’s,  and  then  in  the  others’,  hands,  to  strike 
three  times  Avith  it,  and  conclude,  in  this  expression,  the  union  i 
of  the  stone  with  the  soil. 

“ The  work  of  the  mason,”  the  si)eaker  continued,  “ now  i 
under  the  free  sky  as  we  are,  if  it  be  not  done  in  concealment, 
yet  must  pass  into  concealment ; the  soil  will  be  laid  smoothly 
in,  and  thrown  over  this  stone  ; and,  with  the  walls  which  we 
rear  into  the  daylight,  we  in  the  end  are  seldom  remembered. 
The  works  of  the  stone-cutter  and  the  carver  remain  under 
the  eyes : but  for  us  it  is  not  to  complain  when  the  plasterer 
blots  out  the  last  trace  of  our  hands,  and  appropriates  our 
work  to  himself ; when  he  overlays,  smooths,  and  colom  it.  | 

“ Not  from  regard  for  the  opinion  of  others,  but  from 
respect  for  himself,  the  mason  will  be  faithful  in  his  calling. 
There  is  no  one  who  has  more  need  to  feel  in  himself  the  con- 
sciousness of  what  he  is.  ‘When  the  house  has  been  erected, 
w'heii  the  soil  is  leA'elled,  and  the  surface  paved,  and  the  out- 
side all  OA'erwrought  Avith  ornament,  he  can  eA'eu  see  in  yet  ' 
through  all  disguises,  and  still  recognize  those  exact  and 
careful  adjustments  to  aaIucIi  the  whole  is  indebted  for  its 
existence  and  support. 

“ But  as  the  man  Avho  commits  some  evil  deed  has  to  fear, 
that,  notwithstanding  all  precautions,  it  will  one  day  come  to 
light : so  too  must  he  expect  who  has  done  some  good  thing  ^ 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


165 


in  secret,  that  it  also,  in  spite  of  him,  will  appear  in  the  day  ; 
and  therefore  we  make  this  foundation-stone  at  the  same  time 
a memorial-stone.  Here,  in  these  various  cavities  which  have 
been  hewn  into  it,  many  things  are  now  to  be  buried,  to  bear 
witness  to  distant  posterity.  These  metal  cases  hermetically 
sealed  contain  documents  in  writing ; matters  of  various  note 
are  engraved  on  these  plates  ; in  these  beautiful  glass  bottles 
we  bury  the  best  old  wine,  with  the  date  of  its  vintage.  We 
have  coins,  too,  of  many  kinds,  from  the  mint  of  the  current 
year.  All  this  we  ha^^e  received  through  the  liberality  of  him 
for  whom  we  build.  There  is  still  some  space  left,  if  any 
guest  or  spectator  desire  to  offer  something  for  posted  y.” 

After  a slight  pause  the  speaker  looked  round  : but,  as  is 
commonly  the  case  on  such  occasions,  no  one  was  prepared ; 
they  were  all  taken  by  surprise.  At  last,  a merry-looking 
young  officer  set  the  example,  and  said,  “ If  I am  to  con- 
tribute any  thing,  which  as  yet  is  not  to  be  found  in  this 
treasure-chamber,  it  shall  be  a pair  of  buttons  from  my 
uniform.  — I don’t  see  why  they  do  not  deseiwe  to  go  down 
to  posterity!”  No  sooner  said  than  done,  and  then  a 
number  of  persons  found  something  of  the  same  sort  which 
they  could  do  : the  young  ladies  did  not  hesitate  to  throw  in 
some  of  their  side  hair-combs  ; smelling-bottles  and  other 
trinkets  were  not  spared.  Onlj’  Ottilie  hung  back,  till  a 
kind  word  from  Edward  roused  her  from  the  abstraction  in 
which  she  was  watching  the  various  things  being  heaped  in. 
Then  she  unclasped  from  her  neck  the  gold  chain  on  which 
her  father’s  picture  had  hung,  and  with  a light,  gentle  hand 
laid  it  down  on  the  other  jewels.  Edward  rather  disar- 
ranged the  proceedings  by  at  once,  in  some  haste,  having 
the  cover  let  fall,  and  fastened  down. 

The  young  journeyman  mason  who  had  been  most  active 
through  all  this,  again  took  his  place  as  orator,  and  went  on, 
“We  lay  down  this  stone  forever,  for  the  establishing  the 
present  and  the  future  possessors  of  this  house.  But  in 
that  we  bury  this  treasure  together  with  it,  we  do  it  in  the 
remembrance  — in  this  most  enduring  of  works  — of  the 
perishableness  of  all  human  things.  We  remember  that  a 
time  may  come  when  this  lid  so  firmly  sealed  shall  again  be 
lifted  ; and  that  can  only  be  when  all  shall  again  be  destroyed, 
which  as  yet  we  have  not  brought  into  being. 

“But  now  — now  that  at  once  it  may  begin  to  be,  back 
with  our  thoughts  out  of  the  future,  — back  into  the  present. 
At  once,  after  the  feast  which  we  have  this  day  kept  together. 


166 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


let  ns  on  with  our  labor : let  no  one  of  all  those  trades  which 
are  to  work  on  our  foundation,  through  us  keep  unwilling 
holiday.  Let  the  building  rise  swiftly  to  its  height ; and, 
from  the  windows  which  as  yet  have  no  existence,  may  the 
master  of  the  house,  his  family,  and  guests  look  forth  with 
a glad  heart  over  his  broad  lands.  To  him  and  to  all  here 
present  herewith  be  health  and  happiness.” 

With  these  words  lie  drained  a richlj'  cut  tumbler  at  a 
draught,  and  flung  it  into  the  air,  thereby  to  signify  the 
excess  of  pleasure  by  destroying  the  vessel  which  had  seiwed 
for  such  a solemn  occasion.  This  time,  however,  it  fell  out 
otherwise.  The  glass  did  not  fall  back  to  the  earth,  and 
indeed  without  a miracle. 

In  order  to  get  forward  with  the  buildings,  they  had  already 
excavated  the  whole  ground  at  the  opposite  corner  ; indeed, 
they  had  begun  to  raise  the  wall,  and,  for  this  purpose,  reared 
a scaffold  as  high  as  was  absolutely  necessary.  On  the 
occasion  of  the  festival,  boards  had  been  laid  along  the  top 
of  this  ; and  a number  of  spectators  were  allowed  to  stand 
there.  It  had  been  meant  principally  for  the  advantage  of 
the  workmen  themselves.  The  glass  had  flown  up  there,  ' 
and  had  been  caught  by  one  of  them,  who  took  it  as  a sign 
of  good  luck  for  himself.  He  waved  it  round  without  letting 
it  go  from  his  hand  ; and  the  letters  E and  O were  to  be  seen  ' 
very  richly  cut  upon  it,  running  one  into  the  other.  It  was 
one  of  the  glasses  which  had  been  made  to  order  for  Edward 
when  he  was  a boy. 

The  scaffoldings  were  again  deserted  ; and  the  most  active 
among  the  party  climbed  up  to  look  round,  and  could  not  say 
enough  in  praise  of  the  beauty  of  the  prospect  on  all  sides. 
How  many  new  discoveries  a person  makes  when,  on  some 
high  point,  he  ascends  a somewhat  higher  eminence.  Inland 
many  fresh  villages  came  in  sight.  The  line  of  the  river 
could  be  traced  like  a thread  of  silver ; indeed,  one  of  the 
party  thought  that  he  distinguished  the  spires  of  the  capital. 

On  the  other  side,  behind  the  wooded  hill,  the  blue  peaks 
of  the  far-off  mountains  were  seen  rising ; and  the  country 
immediately  about  them  was  spread  out  like  a map. 

“ If  the  three  ponds,”  cried  some  one.  “ were  but  thrown  ' 
together  to  make  a single  sheet  of  water,  there  would  be 
every  thing  here  which  is  noblest  and  most  excellent.” 

“ That  might  easily  be  effected,”  the  captain  said.  “In 
early  times  they  must  have  formed  all  one  lake  among  the 
hills  here.” 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


167 


“ Only  I must  beseech  you  to  spare  my  clump  of  plane- 
trees  and  poplars  that  stand  so  prettily  by  the  centre  pond,” 
said  Edward.  “ Look,”  he" said,  turning  to  Ottilie,  bringing 
her  a few  steps  forward,  and  pointing  down,  “ those  trees  I 
planted  myself.” 

“ How  long  have  they  been  standing  there?  ” asked' Ottilie. 

“Just  about  as  long  as  you  have  been  in  the  world,” 
replied  Edward.  “Yes,  my  dear  child,  I planted  them 
when  you  were  still  lying  in  your  cradle.” 

The  party  now  betook  themselves  back  to  the  castle. 
When  dinner  was  over,  they  were  invited  to  walk  through 
the  village  to  take  a glance  at  what  had  been  done  there  as 
well.  At  a hint  from  the  captain,  the  inhabitants  had  col- 
lected in  front  of  the  houses.  They  were  not  standing  in 
rows,  but  formed  in  natural  family  groups,  partly  occupied 
at  their  evening  work,  partly  enjoying  themselves  on  the 
new  benches.  They  had  determined,  as  an  agreeable  duty 
which  they  imposed  upon  themselves,  to  have  every  thing  in 
its  present  order  and  cleanliness,  at  least  every  Sunday  and 
holiday. 

A small  party,  held  together  by  such  feelings  as  had  grown 
up  among  our  friends,  is  always  unpleasantly  interrupted  by 
a large  concourse  of  people.  All  four  wmre  delighted  to  find 
i themselves  again  alone  in  the  large  drawing-room  ; but  this 
' sense  of  home  was  a little  disturbed  by  a letter  which  was 
ij  brought  to  Edward,  giving  notice  of  fresh  guests  who  were 
I to  arrive  the  following  day. 

j “It  is  as  we  supposed,”  Edward  cried  to  Charlotte. 

' ‘ ‘ The  count  will  not  stay  away  : he  is  coming  to-morrow.  ’ ’ 

'I  “Then,  the  baroness,  too,  is  not  far  off,”  answered 
Charlotte. 

I “Doubtless  not,”  said  Edward.  “She  is  coming,  too, 
to-morrow,  from  another  place.  They  onl)^  beg  to  be  allowed 
to  stay  for  a night : the  next  day  they  will  go  on  together.” 
•'!  “We  must  prepare  for  them  in  time,  Ottilie,”  said 
iCharlotte. 

I “What  arrangement  shall  I desire  to  be  made,”  Ottilie 
jasked. 

I Charlotte  gave  a general  direction,  and  Ottilie  left  the 
[room. 

. The  captain  inquired  in  what  relation  these  two  persons 
stood  towards  one  another,  and  with  which  he  was  only  very 
> generally  acquainted.  They  had  some  time  before,  both 
.?  oeing  already  married,  fallen  violently  in  love  with  one 

1 1 


168 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


another : a double  marriage  was  not  to  be  interfered  with 
without  attracting  attention.  A divorce  was  proposed.  On 
the  baroness’s  side  it  could  be  effected,  on  that  of  the  count 
it  could  not.  They  were  obliged  seemingly  to  separate,  but 
their  position  towards  one  another  remained  unchanged  ; and 
though  in  winter  at  the  Residence  they  were  unable  to  be 
together,  they  indemnified  themselves  in  summer,  while  mak- 
ing tours  and  staying  at  watering-places. 

They  were  both  sliglitly  older  than  Edward  and  Charlotte, 
and  had  been  intimate  with  them  from  early  times  at  court. 
The  connection  had  never  been  absolute!}'  broken  off,  al- 
though it  was  impossible  to  approve  of  their  proceedings. 
On  the  present  occasion,  their  coming  was  most  unwelcome 
to  Charlotte  ; and,  if  she  had  looked  closely  into  her  reasons 
for  feeling  it  so,  she  would  have  found  it  was  on  account 
of  Ottilie.  The  poor,  innocent  girl  should  not  have  been 
brought  so  early  in  contact  with  such  an  example. 

“It  would  have  been  just  as  well  if  they  had  not  come 
till  a couple  of  days  later.’’  Edward  was  saying,  as  Ottilie 
re-entered,  “till  we  had  finished  with  this  business  of  the 
farm.  The  deed  of  sale  is  complete.  One  copy  of  it  I have 
here;  but  we  want  a second,  and  our  old  clerk  has  fallen  i 
ill.’’  The  captain  offered  his  services,  and  so  did  Charlotte  ; : 
but  there  was  something  or  other  to  object  to  both  of  ' 
them. 

“ Give  it  to  me,’’  cried  Ottilie,  a little  hastily. 

“ You  will  never  be  able  to  finish  it.’’  said  Charlotte. 

“ And  really  I must  have  it  early  the  day  after  to-morrow, 
and  it  is  long,’’  Edward  added. 

“It  shall  be  ready,’’  Ottilie  cried;  and  the  paper  was 
already  in  her  hands. 

The  next  morning,  as  they  were  looking  out  from  their 
highest  windows  for  their  visitors,  whom  they  intended  to  go 
some  way  and  meet,  Edward  said,  “ V ho  is  that  yonder, 
slowly  riding  along  the  road?  ’’ 

The  captain  described  acenrately  the  figure  of  the  horse- 
man. 

“Then,  it  is  he,’’  said  Edward:  “the  particulars,  which 
you  can  see  better  than  I,  agree  very  well  with  the  general  ' 
figure,  which  I can  see  too.  It  is  Mittler ; but  what  is  he 
doing,  coming  riding  at  such  a pace  as  that  ? ’ ’ 

The  figure  came  nearer,  and  TIittler  it  veritably  was. 
They  received  him  with  w.arm  greetings,  as  he  came  slowly 
up  the  steps. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


169 


“ Why  did  you  not  come  yesterday?”  Edward  cried,  as 
he  approached. 

“I  do  not  like  your  grand  festivities,”  answered  he; 
“but  I have  come  to-day  to  keep  my  friend’s  bhlhday  with 
you  quietly.” 

‘ ‘ How  are  you  able  to  find  time  enough  ? ’ ’ asked  Edward, 
with  a laugh. 

“ ]\Iy  visit,  if  you  can  value  it,  you  owe  to  an  observation 
I made  yesterday.  I was  spending  a right  happy  afternoon 
in  a house  where  I had  established  peace,  and  then  I heard 
that  a birthday  was  being  kept  here.  ‘ Now,  this  is  what  I 
call  selfish,  after  all,’  said  I to  myself  : ‘ you  will  only  enjoy 
yourself  with  those  whose  broken  peace  you  have  mended. 
Why  cannot  you,  for  once,  go  and  be  happy  with  friends 
who  keep  the  peace  for  themselves  ? ’ No  sooner  said  than 
done.  Here  I am,  as  I determined  with  myself  that  I would 
be.” 

“ Yesterday  you  would  have  met  a large  party  here:  to- 
day you  will  find  but  a small  one,”  said  Charlotte.  “You 
will  meet  the  count  and  the  baroness,  with  whom  you  have 
had  enough  to  do  already,  I believe.” 

Out  of  the  middle  of  the  party,  who  had  all  four  come 
down  to  welcome  him,  the  strange  man  dashed  in  the  keenest 
disgust,  seizing,  at  the  same  time,  his  hat  and  wiiip.  “ Some, 
unlucky  star  is  always  over  me,”  he  cried,  “directly  I try 
to  rest  and  enjoy  myself.  What  business  have  I going  out 
of  my  proper  character?  I ought  never  to  have  come,  and 
now  I am  expelled.  Under  one  roof  with  those  tw'O  I will 
not  remain,  and  you  take  care  of  yourselves.  They  bring 
nothing  but  mischief.  Their  nature  is  like  leaven,  and 
propagates  its  own  contagion.” 

They  tried  to  pacify  him,  but  it  was  in  vain.  “Whoever 
strikes  at  marriage,”  he  cried,  — “whoever,  either  by  word 
or  deed,  undermines  this,  the  foundation  of  all  moral  societ}’, 
that  man  has  to  settle  with  me  ; and,  if  I cannot  become  his 
master,  I take  care  to  settle  myself  out  of  his  way.  Mar- 
riage is  the  beginning  and  end  of  all  culture.  It  makes  the 
savage  mild,  and  the  most  cultiv'ated  has  no  better  oppor- 
tunity for  displaying  his  gentleness.  Indissoluble  it  must 
be,  because  it  brings  so  much  happiness  that  what  small, 
exceptional  unhappiness  it  may  bring  counts  for  nothing  in 
the  balance.  And  what  do  men  mean  by  talking  of  unhap- 
piness? All  men  have,  at  times,  fits  of  impatience,  when 
they  fancy  themselves  unhappy.  Let  them  wait  till  the 


170 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


moment  is  gone  by,  and  then  they  will  bless  theii’  good  for- 
tune that  what  has  stood  so  long  continues  standing.  There 
never  can  be  any  adequate  ground  for  separation.  The 
condition  of  man  is  pitched  so  high,  in  its  joys  and  in  its 
sorrows,  that  what  a married  couple  owe  to  one  another 
defies  calculation.  It  is  an  infinite  debt,  which  can  only  be 
discharged  through  all  eternity. 

“Its  annoyances  marriage  may  often  have:  I can  well 
believe  that,  and  it  is  as  it  should  be.  We  are  all  married 
to  our  consciences,  and  there  are  times  when  we  should  be 
glad  to  be  divorced  from  them.  Mine  gives  me  more  annoy- 
ance than  ever  a man  or  a woman  can  give.’’ 

Such  were  his  words,  uttered  with  great  vivacity;  and  he, 
would  very  likely  have  gone  on  speaking,  had  not  the  sound 
of  the  postilions’  horns  announced  the  arrival  of  the  visitor’s, 
who,  as  if  by  a preconcerted  arrangement,  at  the  same  mo- 
ment drove  into  the  castle-courtyard  from  opposite  sides. 
Mittler  slipped  away  as  their  host  hastened  to  receive  them, 
and,  desiring  that  his  horse  might  be  brought  out  immedi- 
ately, rode  angrily  off. 


CHAPTER  X. 

The  visitors  were  welcomed,  and  brought  in.  They  were 
delighted  to  find  themselves  again  in  the  same  house  and  in 
the  same  rooms  where  in  early  times  they  had  passed  many 
happy  days,  but  which  they  had  not  seen  for  a long  time. 
Their  friends,  too,  were  very  glad  to  see  them.  Both  tlie 
count  and  the  baroness  had  those  tall,  fine  figures,  which 
please  in  middle  life  almost  better  than  in  youth.  For, 
although  their  first  bloom  had  somewhat  faded,  there  was  an 
air  in  their  appearance  which  was  always  irresistibly  attrac- 
tive. Their  manners,  too.  were  thoroughly  charming.  Their 
free  way  of  taking  hold  of  life,  and  dealing  with  it.  their 
mirthfulness,  apparent  ease,  and  freedom  from  emban-ass- 
meut,  communicated  itself  at  once  to  the  rest : and  a lighter 
atmosphere  hung  about  the  whole  party,  without  their  having 
observed  it  stealing  on  them. 

The  effect  was  immediately  felt  on  the  entrance  of  the 
new-comers.  They  were  fresh  from  the  fashionable  world. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


171 


as  was  to  be  seen  at  once  in  their  dress,  in  their  equipment, 
and  in  every  thing  about  them  ; and  they  formed  a contrast, 
not  a little  striking,  with  our  friends,  their  rural  style,  and 
the  vehement  feelings  actuating  them  in  secret.  This,  how- 
ever, very  soon  disappeared  in  the  stream  of  past  recollection 
and  present  interests  ; and  a rapid,  lively  conversation  soon 
united  them  all.  After  a short  time,  they  again  separated. 
The  ladies  withdrew  to  their  own  apartments,  and  there 
found  amusement  enough  in  the  many  things  they  had  to  tell 
each  other,  and  in  setting  to  work,  at  the  same  time,  to  ex- 
amine the  new  fashions,  the  spring-dresses,  bonnets,  and  such 
like  ; while  the  gentlemen  busied  themselves  looking  at  the 
new  travelling  chariots,  trotting  out  the  horses,  and  begin- 
ning at  once  to  bargain  and  exchange. 

They  did  not  meet  again  till  dinner ; in  the  mean  time 
they  had  changed  their  dress.  And  here,  too,  the  newly 
arrived  pair  showed  to  all  advantage.  Every  thing  they 
wore  was  new,  and  of  a st}de  such  as  their  friends  at  the 
castle  had  never  seen ; and  yet,  being  accustomed  to  it 
themselves,  it  appeared  perfectly  natural  and  graceful. 

The  conversation  was  brilliant  and  varied ; as,  indeed,  in 
the  presence  of  such  persons,  every  thing  and  nothing  seems 
to  be  of  interest.  They  spoke  in  French,  that  the  attendants 
might  not  understand  what  they  said,  and  swept,  in  happiest 
humor,  over  all  that  was  passing  in  the  great  or  the  middle 
world.  On  one  particular  subject  they  remained,  however, 
longer  than  was  desirable.  It  was  occasioned  by  Charlotte 
asking  after  one  of  her  early  friends,  of  whom  she  had  to 
learn,  with  some  distress,  that  she  was  on  the  point  of  being 
separated  from  her  husband. 

“It  is  a melancholy  thing,”  Charlotte  said,  “’when  we 
fancy  our  absent  friends  are  finally  settled,  when  we  believe 
persons  very  dear  to  us  to  be  provided  for  for  life,  suddenly 
to  hear  that  their  fortunes  are  cast  loose  once  more ; that 
they  have  to  strike  into  a fresh  path  of  life,  and  very  likely 
a most  insecure  one.” 

“Indeed,  my  dear  friend,”  the  count  answered,  “it  is 
our  own  fault  if  we  allow  ourselves  to  be  surprised  at  such 
things.  We  please  ourselves  with  imagining  matters  of  this 
earth,  and  particularly  matrimonial  connections,  as  very  en- 
during : and,  as  concerns  this  last  point,  the  plays  which  we 
see  over  and  over  again  help  to  mislead  us ; being,  as  they 
are,  so  untrue  to  the  course  of  the  world.  In  a comedy  we 
see  a marriage  as  the  last  aim  of  a desire  which  is  hindered 


172 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


aud  crossed  through  a number  of  acts ; and  at  the  instant 
when  it  is  reached  the  curtain  falls,  and  the  momentary 
satisfaction  continues  to  ring  on  in  our  ears.  But  in  the 
world  it  is  very  different.  The  play  goes  on  still  behind  the 
scenes  ; and,  when  the  curtain  rises  again,  we  may  see  and 
hear,  perhaps,  little  enough  of  the  marriage.” 

“ It  cannot  be  so  very  bad,  however,”  said  Charlotte, 
smiling.  “We  see  people  who  have  gone  off  the  boards  of 
the  theatre,  ready  enough  to  undertake  a part  upon  them 
again.” 

“ There  is  nothing  to  be  said  against  that,”  said  the  count. 
“ In  a new  character  a man  may  readily  venture  on  a second 
trial ; aud,  when  we  know  the  world,  we  see  clearly  that  it 
is  only  this  positive,  eternal  duration  of  marriage  in  a world 
where  every  thing  is  in  motion,  which  has  any  thing  unbe- 
coming about  it.  A friend  of  mine,  whose  good-humor 
shone  forth  principally  in  suggestions  for  new  laws,  main- 
tained that  every  marriage  should  be  concluded  only  for  five 
years.  Five,  he  said,  was  a sacred  number, — pretty  and 
uneven.  Such  a period  would  be  long  enough  for  people  to 
learn  one  another’s  character,  bring  a child  or  two  into  the 
world,  quarrel,  separate,  and,  what  was  best,  get  reconciled 
again.  He  would  often  exclaim,  ‘How  happily  the  first 
part  of  the  time  would  pass  away ! ’ Two  or  three  years,  at 
least,  would  be  perfect  bliss.  On  one  side  or  other,  there 
would  not  fail  to  be  a wish  to  have  the  relation  continue 
longer ; and  the  amiability  would  increase,  the  nearer  the}’ 
got  to  the  time  of  parting.  The  indifferent,  even  the  dis- 
satisfied, party,  would  be  softened  aud  gained  over  by  such 
behavior : they  would  forget,  as  in  pleasant  company  the 
hours  pass  always  unobseiwed,  how  the  time  went  by,  and 
would  be  delightfully  surprised  when,  after  the  term  had 
run  out,  they  first  obseiw ed  that  they  had  unknowingly  pro- 
longed it.” 

Charming  aud  pleasant  as  all  this  sounded,  and  deep 
(Charlotte  felt  it  to  her  soul)  as  was  the  moral  significance 
which  lay  below  it,  expressions  of  this  kind,  on  Ottilie’s 
account,  were  most  distasteful  to  her.  She  knew  very  well 
that  nothing  was  more  dangerous  than  the  licentious  con- 
versation which  treats  culpable  or  semi-culpable  actions  as 
if  they  were  common,  ordinary,  and  even  laudable : aud  of 
such  uudesu-able  kind  assuredly  was  whatever  touched  on  the 
sacreduess  of  marriage.  She  therefore  endeavored,  in  her 
skilful  way,  to  give  the  conversation  another  turn  ; and.  when 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


173 


she  found  that  she  could  not,  it  vexed  her  that  Ottilie  had 
managed  every  thing  so  well  that  there  was  no  occasion  for 
her  to  leave  the  table.  In  her  quiet,  obseiwant  way,  a nod  or 
a look  was  enough  for  her  to  signify  to  the  head  servant 
whatever  was  to  be  done  ; and  every  thing  went  off  perfectly, 
although  there  were  a couple  of  strange  men  in  livery  in  the 
way,  who  were  rather  a trouble  than  a eouvenienee.  And  so 
the  count,  without  perceiving  Charlotte’s  hints,  went  on  giv- 
ing his  opinions  on  the  same  subject.  It  was  not  his  wont 
to  be  tedious  in  conversation ; but  this  was  a thing  which 
weighed  so  heavily  on  his  heart,  and  the  difficulties  he  found 
in  getting  separated  from  his  wife  were  so  great,  that  it  had 
made  him  bitter  against  every  thing  concerning  the  marriage- 
bond,  — that  very  bond  which,  nevertheless,  he  so  anxiously 
desired  for  himself  and  the  baroness. 

“The  same  friend,’’  he  went  on,  “has  another  law  to 
propose.  A marriage  is  to  be  held  indissoluble,  only  either 
when  both  parties,  or  at  least  one,  enter  into  it  for  the  third 
time.  Such  persons  must  be  supposed  to4icknowledge  beyond 
a doubt  that  they  find  marriage  indispensable  for  themselves  ; 
they  have  had  opportunities  of  thoroughly  knowing  them- 
selves ; of  knowing  how  they  conducted  themselves  in  their 
earlier  unions ; whether  they  have  any  peculiarities  of 
temper,  which  are  a more  frequent  cause  of  separation  than 
bad  dispositions.  People  would  then  obseiwe  one  another 
more  closely : they  would  pay  as  much  attention  to  the  mar- 
ried as  to  the  unmarried,  no  one  being  able  to  tell  how  things 
may  turn  out.” 

“That  would  add  no  little  to  the  interest  of  society,”  said 
Edward.  “As  things  are  now,  when  a man  is  manned, 
nobody  cares  any  more,  either  for  his  virtues  or  for  his 
vices.” 

“ Under  this  arrangement,”  the  baroness  rejoined,  smil- 
ing, “our  dear  hosts  have  passed  successfully  two  stages, 
and  may  make  themselves  ready  for  their  third.” 

“Things  have  gone  happily  with  them,”  said  the  count. 
“In  their  case,  death  has  done  with  a good  grace  what  in 
other  cases  the  consistorial  courts  do  with  a very  bad  one.” 

“Let  the  dead  rest,”  said  Charlotte,  with  a half-serious 
look. 

“Why  so,”  replied  the  count,  “when  we  can  remember 
them  with  honor?  They  were  generous  enough  to  content 
themselves  with  less  than  their  number  of  years  for  the  sake 
of  the  larger  good  which  they  could  leave  behind  them.” 


174 


ELECTHTi:  AFFINITIES. 


“Alas!  that  in  such  eases,”  said  the  baroness,  with  a 
suppressed  sigh,  “happiness  is  only  bought  with  the  sacri- 
fice of  our  fairest  years.” 

“Yes,  indeed,”  answered  the  count;  “and  it  might  drive 
us  to  despair,  if  it  were  not  the  same  with  every  thing  in  this 
world.  Nothing  goes  as  we  hope.  Children  do  not  fulfil 
what  they  promise  ; young  people  very  seldom  ; and,  if  they 
do,  the  world  does  not.” 

Charlotte,  who  was  delighted  that  the  conversation  had 
changed  at  last,  replied  cheerfully,  — 

“ Well,  then,  we  must  content  ourselves  with  enjoying 
what  good  we  are  to  have  in  fragments  and  pieces,  as  we 
can  get  it ; and  the  sooner  we  can  accustom  ourselves  to  this 
the  better.” 

“Certainly,”  the  count  answered,  “you  two  have  had  the 
enjoyment  of  very  happy  times.  When  I recall  the  years  ! 

when  you  and  Edward  were  the  loveliest  couple  at  the  court,  ' 

I see  nothing  now  to  be  compai’ed  with  those  brilliant  times 
and  such  magnificent  figures.  When  you  two  used  to  dance 
together,  all  eyes  w’ere  turned  upon  3^011,  fastened  upon  you ; 
while  you^saw  nothing  but  each  other.”  1 

“ So  much  has  changed  since  those  days,”  said  Charlotte, 
“that  we  can  listen  to  such  prett}’  things  about  ourselves  I 
without  our  modesty  being  shocked  at  them.”  ^ 

“ I often  privately  found  fault  with  Edward,”  said  the  j 

count,  “for  not  being  more  firm.  Those  singular  parents  ' 

of  his  would  certaiul}^  have  given  way  at  last,  and  ten  fair 
years  is  no  trifle  to  gain.”  1 

“ I must  take  Edward’s  part,”  struck  in  the  baroness.  j 
‘ ‘ Charlotte  was  not  altogether  without  fault,  — not  altogether  ’ 
free  from  what  we  must  call  prudential  considerations  : and 
although  she  had  a real,  hearty  love  for  Edward,  and  did  in 
her  secret  soul  intend  to  many  him,  I can  bear  witness  how  j 

sorely  she  often  tried  him  ; and  it  was  through  this  that  he 
was  at  last  unluckily  prevailed  upon  to  leave  her  and  go 
abroad,  and  tr}'  to  forget  her.” 

Edward  nodded  to  the  baroness,  and  seemed  grateful  for 
her  advocacy. 

“ And  then  I must  add  this,”  she  continued,  “ in  excuse 
for  Charlotte.  The  man  who  was  at  that  time  wooing  her, 
had  for  a long  time  given  proofs  of  his  constant  attachment 
to  her,  and,  when  one  came  to  know  him  well,  was  a far 
more  lovable  person  than  the  rest  of  you  may  like  to 
acknowledge.” 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


175 


“Dear  friend,”  the  count  replied,  a little  pointedly, 
“confess,  now,  that  he  was  not  altogether  indifferent  to  your- 
. self,  and  that  Charlotte  had  more  to  fear  from  you  than  from 
t!  any  other  rival.  I find  it  one  of  the  highest  traits  in  women, 
ji  that  they  preserve  so  long  their  regard  for  a man,  and  that 
:!l  absence  of  no  duration  will  serve  to  disturb  or  remove  it.” 

In  “This  fine  feature  men  possess,  perhaps,  even  more,” 
answered  the  baroness.  “At  any  rate,  I have  observed  with 
you,  my  dear  count,  that  no  one  has  more  influence  over  j'ou 
than  a lady  to  whom  you  were  once  attached.  I have  seen 
you  take  more  trouble  to  do  things  when  a certain  person 
has  asked  you,  than  the  friend  of  this  moment  would  have 
obtained  of  you,  if  she  had  tried.” 

“ Such  a charge  as  that  one  must  bear  the  best  way  one 
can,”  replied  the  count.  “But,  as  to  what  concerns  Char- 
lotte’s first  husband,  I could  not  endure  him  ; because  he 
parted  so  sweet  a pair  from  one  another,  — a really  pre- 
destined pair,  who,  once  brought  together,  have  no  reason 
to  fear  the  five  years,  or  be  thinking  of  a second  or  third 
marriage.” 

“We  must  try,”  Charlotte  said,  “to  make  up  for  what  we 
then  allowed  to  slip  from  us.” 

“ Ay,  and  you  must  keep  to  that,”  said  the  count : “ your 
first  marriages,”  he  continued,  with  some  vehemence,  “were 
exactly  marriages  of  the  true  detestable  sort.  And,  unhap- 
pily, marriages  generally,  even  the  best,  have  (forgive  me  for 
using  a strong  expression)  something  awkward  about  them, 
j They  destroy  the  delicacy  of  the  relation  : every  thing  is  made 
) to  rest  on  the  broad  certainty  out  of  which  one  side  or 
ji  other,  at  least,  is  too  apt  to  make  their  own  advantage.  It  is 

i ail  a matter  of  course  ; and  they  seem  only  to  have  got  them- 

! selves  tied  together,  that  one  or  the  other,  or  both,  may  go 
i;  their  own  way  the  more  easily.” 

|i  At  this  moment,  Charlotte,  who  was  determined  once  for 
■ all  that  she  would  put  an  end  to  the  conversation,  made  a 

II  bold  effort  at  turning  it,  and  succeeded.  It  then  became 

j more  general.  She  and  her  husband  and  the  captain  were 

able  to  take  a part  in  it.  Even  OttUie  had  to  give  her 

" opinion,  and  the  dessert  was  enjoyed  in  the  happiest  humor. 
It  was  particularly  beautiful,  being  composed  almost  entirely 
of  the  rich  summer  fruits  in  elegant  baskets,  with  epergues 
of  lovely  flowers  arranged  in  exquisite  taste. 

The  new  laying-out  of  the  park  came  to  be  spoken  of,  and 
immediately  after  dinner  they  went  to  look  at  what  was  going 


176 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


on.  Ottilie  withdrew,  under  pretence  of  having  household 
matters  to  look  to  ; in  reality,  it  was  to  set  to  work  again  at 
the  transcribing.  The  count  fell  into  conversation  with  the 
captain,  and  Charlotte  afterwards  joined  them.  When  they 
were  at  the  summit,  the  captain  good-naturedly  ran  back  to 
fetch  the  plan  ; and,  in  his  absence,  the  count  said  to  Char- 
lotte, — 

“ He  is  an  exceedingly  pleasing  person.  He  is  veiw  well 
informed,  and  his  knowledge  is  always  ready.  His  practi- 
cal power,  too,  seems  methodical  and  vigorous.  What  he 
is  doing  hei’e  would  be  of  great  importance  in  some  higher 
sphere.” 

Charlotte  listened  to  the  captain’s  praises  with  an  inward 
delight.  She  collected  herself,  however,  and  composedly 
and  clearly  confirmed  what  the  count  had  said.  But  she  was 
not  a little  startled  when  he  continued,  — 

“This  acquaintance  falls  most  opportunely  for  me.  I 
know  of  a situation  for  which  he  is  pei’fectly  suited ; and 
I shall  be  doing  the  greatest  favor  to  a friend  of  mine,  a 
man  of  high  rank,  by  recommending  to  him  a person  who  is 
so  exactly  every  thing  which  he  desires.” 

Charlotte  felt  as  if  a stroke  of  thunder  had  fallen  on  her. 
The  count  did  not  observe  it : women,  being  accustomed  at 
all  times  to  hold  themselves  in  restraint,  are  always  able, 
even  in  the  most  extraordinary  cases,  to  maintain  an  appar- 
ent composure  ; but  she  heard  not  a word  more  of  what  the 
count  said,  though  he  went  on  speaking. 

“ When  I have  made  up  my  mind  upon  a thing,”  he 
added,  “ I am  quick  about  it.  I have  put  my  letter  together 
already  in  my  head,  and  I shall  write  it  immediately.  You 
can  find  me  some  messenger,  who  can  ride  off  with  it  this 
evening.” 

Charlotte  was  suffering  agonies.  Startled  with  the  pro- 
posal, and  shocked  at  herself,  she  was  unable  to  utter  a 
word.  Happily  the  count  continued  talking  of  his  plans  for 
the  captain,  the  desirableness  of  which  was  only  too  appar- 
ent to  Charlotte. 

It  was  time  that  the  captain  I’eturned.  He  came  up.  and 
unrolled  his  design  before  the  count.  But  with  what  changed 
eyes  Charlotte  now  looked  at  the  friend  whom  she  was  to 
lose  ! In  her  necessity  she  bowed,  and  turned  away,  and 
hurried  down  to  the  summer-house.  Before  she  had  gone 
half-way,  the  tears  were  streaming  from  her  eyes  ; and  she 
flung  herself  into  the  narrow  room  in  the  little  hermitage. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


177 


and  gave  herself  up  to  an  agony,  a passion,  a despair,  of 
the  possibility  of  which,  but  a few  moments  before,  she  had 
not  had  the  slightest  conception. 

Edward  had  gone  with  the  baroness  in  the  other  direction, 
towards  the  ponds.  This  ready-witted  lady,  who  liked  to  be 
in  the  secret  about  every  thing,  soon  observed,  in  a few  con- 
versational feelers  which  she  threw  out,  that  Edward  was 
very  fluent  and  free-spoken  in  praise  of  Ottilie.  She  con- 
trived in  the  most  natural  way  to  draw  him  out  by  degrees  so 
completely,  that  at  last  she  had  not  a doubt  remaining  that 
here  was  not  merely  an  incipient  fancy,  but  a veritable,  full- 
grown  passion. 

Married  women,  if  they  have  no  particular  love  for  one 
another,  yet  are  silently  in  league  together,  especially  against 
young  girls.  The  consequences  of  such  an  inclination  pre- 
sented themselves  only  too  quickly  to  her  world-experienced 
spirit.  Added  to  this,  she  had  been  already,  in  the  course 
of  the  day,  talking  to  Charlotte  about  Ottilie  : she  had  dis- 
approved of  her  remaining  in  the  country,  particularly  being 
a girl  of  so  retiring  a character ; and  she  had  proposed  to 
take  Ottilie  with  her  to  the  residence  of  a friend,  who  was 
just  then  bestowing  great  expense  on  the  education  of  an 
only  daughter,  and  who  was  only  looking  about  to  And  some 
well-disposed  companion  for  her,  to  put  her  in  the  place 
of  a second  child,  and  let  her  share  in  every  advantage. 
Charlotte  had  taken  time  to  consider.  But  now  this  glimpse 
of  the  baroness  into  Edward’s  heart  changed  what  had  been 
but  a suggestion  at  once  into  a settled  determination  ; and 
the  more  rapidly  she  made  up  her  mind  about  it,  the  more 
she  outwardly  seemed  to  flatter  Edward’s  wishes.  Never 
was  there  any  one  more  self-possessed  than  this  ladj' ; and 
to  have  mastered  ourselves  in  extraordinary  cases  disposes, 
us  to  treat  even  a common  case  with  dissimulation  : it  makes 
us  inclined,  as  we  have  had  to  do  so  much  violence  to  our- 
selves, to  extend  our  control  over  others,  and  hold  ourselves 
in  a degree  compensated  in  what  we  outwardly  gain  for  what 
we  inwardly  have  been  obliged  to  sacrifice.  To  this  feeling 
there  is  often  joined  a kind  of  secret,  spiteful  pleasure  in 
the  blind,  unconscious  ignorance  with  which  the  victim  walks 
on  into  the  snare.  It  is  not  immediate  success  we  enjoy, 
but  the  thought  of  the  surprise  and  exposure  which  is  to 
follow.  And  thus  was  the  baroness  malicious  enough  to 
invite  Edward  to  come  with  Charlotte,  and  pay  her  a visit  at 
the  grape-gathering,  and,  to  his  question  whether  they  might 


178 


ELECTIYE  AFFINITIES. 


bring  Ottilie  with  them,  to  frame  an  answer  which,  if  he 
pleased,  he  might  iutei’pret  to  his  wishes. 

Edward  had  already  begun  to  pour  out  his  delight  at  the 
beautiful  scenery,  the  broad  river,  the  hills,  the  rocks,  the 
vineyard,  the  old  castles,  the  W'ater-parties,  and  the  jubilee 
at  the  grape-gathering,  the  wine-pressing,  etc.,  — in  all  of 
which,  in  the  innocence  of  his  heart,  he  was  only  exuberat- 
ing' in  the  anticipation  of  the  impression  which  these  scenes 
were  to  make  on  the  fresh  spirit  of  Ottilie.  At  this  moment 
they  saw  her  approach  ; and  the  baroness  said  quickly  to 
Edward  that  he  had  better  say  nothing  to  her  of  this 
intended  autumn  expedition,  things  which  we  set  our  hearts 
upon  so  long  before  so  often  failing  to  come  to  pass.  Edward 
gave  his  promise : but  he  obliged  his  companion  to  move 
more  quickly  to  meet  her ; and  at  last,  when  they  came  very 
close,  he  ran  on  several  steps  in  advance.  A heartfelt  hai>- 
piness  was  expressed  in  his  whole  being.  He  kissed  her 
hand  as  he  pressed  into  it  a nosegay  of  wild- flowers,  which 
he  had  gathered  on  his  way. 

The  baroness  felt  bitter  to  her  heart  at  the  sight  of  it. 
At  the  same  time  that  she  was  able  to  disapprove  of  what 
was  really  objectionable  in  this  affection,  she  could  not  bear 
to  see  what  was  sweet  and  beautiful  in  it  thrown  away  on 
such  a poor,  paltry  girl. 

When  they  had  collected  again  at  the  supper-table,  an 
pntu’ely  different  temper  was  spread  over  the  party.  The 
count,  who  had  in  the  mean  time  written  his  letter  and  de- 
spatched a messenger  with  it,  occupied  himself  with  the 
captain,  whom  he  had  been  drawing  out  more  and  more, 
spending  the  whole  evening  at  his  side,  talking  of  serious 
matters.  The  baroness,  who  sat  on  the  count’s  right,  found 
but  small  amusement  in  this  ; nor  did  Edward  find  any  more. 
The  latter,  first  because  he  was  thirsty,  and  then  because  he 
was  excited,  did  not  spare  the  wine,  and  attached  himself 
entirely  to  Ottilie,  whom  he  had  made  sit  by  him.  On  the 
other  side,  next  to  the  captain,  sat  Charlotte:  for  her  it 
was  hard,  it  was  almost  impossible,  to  conceal  the  emotion 
under  which  she  was  suffering. 

The  baroness  had  suflicient  time  to  make  her  observations 
at  leisure.  She  perceived  Charlotte’s  uneasiness,  and,  occu- 
pied as  she  was  with  Edward’s  passion  for  Ottilie,  easily 
satisfied  herself  that  her  abstraction  and  distress  were  owing 
to  her  husband’s  behavior ; and  she  set  herself  to  consider 
in  what  way  she  could  best  compass  her  ends. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


179 


Supper  was  over,  and  the  party  remained  divided.  The 
count,  whose  object  was  to  probe  the  captain  to  the  bottom, 
had  to  try  many  turns  before  he  could  arrive  at  what  he 
wished  with  so  quiet,  so  little  vain,  but  so  exceedingly 
laconic,  a person.  They  walked  up  and  down  together  on 
one  side  of  the  saloon  ; while  Edward,  excited  with  wine  and 
hope,  was  laughing  with  Ottilie  at  a window  ; and  Charlotte 
and  the  baroness  were  walking  backwards  and  forwards, 
without  speaking,  on  the  other  side.  Their  being  so  silent, 
and  their  standing  about  in  this  uneasy,  listless  way,  had  its 
effect  at  last  in  breaking  up  the  rest  of  the  party.  The 
ladies  withdrew  to  their  rooms,  the  gentlemen  to  the  other 
wing  of  the  castle  ; and  so  this  day  appeared  to  be  concluded. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Edward  went  with  the  count  to  his  room.  They  con- 
tinued talking,  and  he  was  easily  prevailed  upon  to  stay  a 
little  time  longer  there.  The  count  lost  himself  in  old  times, 
spoke  eagerly  of  Charlotte’s  beauty,  which,  as  a critic,  he 
dwelt  upon  with  much  warmth. 

“A  pretty  foot  is  a great  gift,  of  nature,”  he  said.  “ It 
is  a gi’ace  which  never  perishes.  I obsei’ved  it  to-day,  as 
she  was  walking.  I should  almost  have  liked  to  have  kissed 
her  shoe,  and  repeat  that  somewhat  barbarous  but  significant 
practice  of  the  Sarmatians,  who  know  no  better  way  of 
showing  reverence  for  any  one  they  love  or  respect,  than  by 
using  his  shoe  to  drink  his  health  out  of.” 

The  point  of  the  foot  did  not  remain  the  only  subject  of 
praise  between  two  old  acquaintances : they  went  from  the 
person  back  upon  old  stories  and  adventures,  and  came  on 
the  hinderances  people  at  that  time  had  thrown  in  the  way  of 
the  lovers’  meetings,  — what  trouble  they  had  taken,  what 
arts  they  had  been  obliged  to  devise,  only  to  be  able  to  tell 
each  other  that  they  loved. 

“ Do  you  remember,”  continued  the  count,  “ an  adventure 
in  which  I most  unselfishly  stood  your  friend  when  their 
Highnesses  were  on  a visit  to  your  uncle,  and  were  all 
together  in  that  great,  straggling  castle  ? The  day  went  in 
festivities  and  glitter  of  all  sorts,  and  a part  of  the  night  at 
least  in  pleasant  conversation.” 


180 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


“ And  you,  in  the  mean  time,  had  ol)sen'ed  the  back  way 
which  led  to  the  court-ladies’  quarter,”  said  Edward,  “ and 
so  managed  to  effect  an  intei’view  for  me  with  my  beloved.” 
“And  she,”  replied  the  count,  “thinking  more  of  pro- 
priety than  of  my  enjoyment,  had  kept  a frightful  old  duenna 
with  her.  So  that,  while  you  two,  between  looks  and  words, 
got  on  extremely  well  together,  my  lot,  in  the  mean  while, 
was  far  from  pleasant.” 

“Only  yesterday,”  answered  Edward,  “when  you  sent 
word  you  were  coming,  I was  recalling  the  story  to  my  wife, 
and  describing  our  adventure  on  returning.  We  missed  the 
road,  and  got  into  the  entrance-hall  from  the  garden.  Know- 
ing our  waj^  from  thence  so  well  as  we  did,  we  supposed  we 
could  get  along  easily  enough.  But  you  remember  our  sur- 
prise on  opening  the  door.  The  floor  was  covered  over  with 
mattresses,  on  which  the  giants  lay  in  rows  stretched  out 
and  sleeping.  The  single  sentinel  at  his  post  looked  won- 
deringly  at  us  ; but  we,  in  the  cool  way  young  men  do  things, 
strode  quietly  on  over  the  outstretched  boots,  without  dis- 
turbing a single  one  of  the  snoring  children  of  Anak.” 

“I  had  the  strongest  inclination  to  stumble.”  the  count 
said,  “ that  there  might  be  an  alarm  given.  What  a resur- 
rection we  should  have  witnessed.” 

At  this  moment  the  castle-clock  struck  twelve. 

“It  is  deep  midnight,”  the  count  added,  laughing,  “and 
just  the  proper  time : I must  ask  you,  my  dear  baron,  to 
show  me  a kindness.  Do  you  guide  me  to-night,  as  I guided 
you  then.  I promised  the  baroness  that  I would  see  her 
before  going  to  bed.  We  have  had  no  opportunity  of  any 
private  talk  together  the  whole  day.  We  have  not  seen  each 
other  for  a long  time,  and  it  is  only  natural  that  we  should 
wish  for  a confidential  hour.  If  you  will  show  me  the  way 
there,  I will  manage  to  get  back  again  ; and,  in  any  case, 
there  will  be  no  boots  for  me  to  stumble  over.”  - 

“ I shall  be  very  glad  to  show  }’ou  such  a piece  of  hospi- 
tality,” answered  "Edward,  “ only  the  three  ladies  are  together 
in  the  same  wing.  Who  knows  whether  we  shall  not  find 
them  still  with  one  another,  or  make  some  other  misttrke, 
which  may  have  a strange  appearance  ? ’ ’ 

“Do  not  be  afraid,”  said  the  count:  “the  baroness 
expects  me.  She  is  sure  by  this  time  to  be  in  her  own  room, 
and  alone.” 

“ Well,  then,  the  thing  is  easy  enough,”  Edward  answered. 
He  took  a caudle,  and  lighted  the  count  down  a private 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


181 


staircase  leading  into  a long  gallery.  At  the  end  of  this, 
he  opened  a small  door.  They  mounted  a winding  flight 
of  stairs,  which  brought  them  out  upon  a narrow  landing- 
place  ; and  then,  putting  the  caudle  in  the  count’s  hand, 
he  pointed  to  a tapestried  door  on  the  right,  which  opened 
readily  at  the  first  trial,  and  admitted  the  count,  leaving 
Edward  outside  in  the  dark. 

Another  door  on  the  left  led  into  Charlotte’s  sleeping- 
room.  He  heard  her  voice,  and  listened.  She  was  speaking 
to  her  maid.  “ Is  Ottilie  in  bed?  ” she  asked.  “ No,”  was 
the  answer:  “ she  is  sitting  writing  in  the  I’oom  below.”  — 
“ You  may  light  the  night-lamp,”  said  Charlotte  : “I  shall 
not  want  jmu  any  more.  It  is  late.  I can  put  out  the 
candle,  and  do  whatever  I may  want  else  myself.” 

It  was  a delight  to  Edward  to  hear  that  Ottilie  was  still 
writing.  She  is  working  for  me,  he  thought  triumphantly. 
Through  the  darkness,  he  fancied  he  could  see  her  sitting  all 
alone  at  her  desk.  He  thought  he  would  go  to  her,  and  see 
her ; and  how  she  would  turn  to  receive  him.  He  felt  a 
longing,  which  he  could  not  resist,  to  be  near  her  once  more. 
But,  from  where  he  was,  there  was  no  way  to  the  apartments 
which  she  occupied.  He  now  found  himself  immediately  at 
his  wife’s  door.  A singular  change  of  feeling  came  over 
him.  He  tried  the  handle,  but  the  door  was  bolted.  He 
knocked  gently.  Charlotte  did  not  hear  him.  She  was 
walking  rapidly  up  and  down  in  the  large  dressing-room 
adjoining.  She  was  repeating  over  and  over  what,  since  the 
count’s  unexpected  proposal,  she  had  often  enough  had  to 
say  to  herself.  The  captain  seemed  to  stand  before  her.  At 
home  and  everywhere,  he  had  become  her  all  in  all.  And 
now  he  was  to  go,  and  it  was  all  to  be  desolate  again.  She 
repeated  whatever  wise  things  one  can  say  to  one’s  self ; she 
even  anticipated,  as  people  so  often  do,  the  wretched  com- 
fort, that  time  would  come  at  last  to  her  relief  ; and  then  she 
cursed  the  time  which  would  have  to  pass  before  it  could 
lighten  her  sufferings  — she  cursed  the  dead,  cold  time  when 
they  would  be  lightened.  At  last  she  burst  into  tears,  which 
were  the  more  welcome  as  she  rarely  wept.  She  flung  her- 
self on  the  sofa,  and  gave  herself  up  unreservedly  to  her 
sufferings.  Edward,  meanwhile,  could  not  take  himself  from 
the  door.  He  knocked  again,  and  a third  time  somewhat 
louder;  so  that  Charlotte,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  dis- 
’ tinctly  heard  it,  and  started  up  in  fright.  Her  first  thought 
was,  it  can  only  be,  it  must  be,  the  captain ; her  second, 


182 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


that  it  was  impossible.  She  thought  she  must  have  been 
deceived.  But  surely  she  had  heard  it,  and  she  wished 
and  she  feared  to  have  heard  it.  She  went  into  her  sleeping- 
room,  and  walked  lightly  up  to  the  bolted  tapestry-door. 
She  blamed  herself  for  her  fears.  “ Possibly  it  may  be  the 
baroness  wanting  something,”  she  said  to  herself;  and  she 
called  out  quietly  and  calmly,  “ Is  an3'body  there?  ” A light 
voice  answered,  “It  is  I.”  — “Who?”  returned  Charlotte, 
not  being  able  to  make  out  the  voice.  She  thousht  she  saw 
the  captain’s  figure  standing  at  the  door.  In  a slightly  louder 
tone,  she  heard  the  word  “ Edward.”  She  drew  hack  the 
bolt,  and  her  husband  stood  before  her.  He  greeted  her 
with  some  light  jest.  She  was  unable  to  re  pH  in  the  same 
tone.  He  complicated  the  mj'sterious  visit  by  his  mysterious 
explanation  of  it. 

“Well,  then,”  he  said  at  last,  “I  will  confess,  the  real 
reason  why  I am  come  is,  that  I have  made  a vow  to  kiss 
your  shoe  this  evening.” 

“ It  is  long  since  j’ou  thought  of  such  a thing  as  that,” 
said  Charlotte. 

“So  much  the  worse,”  he  answered,  “and  so  much  the 
better.” 

She  had  sat  down  in  an  aiTn-chair  to  prevent  him  from 
seeing  the  scantiness  of  her  dress.  He  flung  himself  down 
before  her,  and  she  could  not  prevent  him  from  giving  her 
shoe  a kiss.  And,  when  the  shoe  came  off  in  his  hand,  he 
caught  her  foot,  and  pressed  it  tenderlj'  against  his  breast. 

Charlotte  was  one  of  those  women  who,  being  of  a natu- 
rally calm  temperament,  continue  in  marriage,  without  any 
purpose  or  anj'  effort,  the  air  and  character  of  lovers.  She 
was  never  expressive  towards  her  husband  ; generalH,  indeed, 
she  rather  shrank  from  an}'  warm  demonstration  on  his  part. 
It  was  not  that  she  was  cold,  or  at  all  hard  and  repulsive  ; 
hut  she  remained  always  like  a loving  bride,  who  draws  back 
with  a kind  of  sh^mess,  even  from  what  is  permitted.  And 
so  Edward  found  her  this  evening,  in  a double  sense.  How 
greatl}’  she  longed  that  her  husband  would  go  : the  figure  of 
his  friend  seemed  to  hover  in  the  air  and  reproach  her.  But 
what  should  have  had  the  effect  of  cMviug  Edward  away 
only  attracted  him  the  more.  There  were  visible  traces  of 
emotion  about  her.  She  had  been  crying  ; and  tears,  which 
with  weak  persons  detract  from  their  graces,  add  immeas- 
urably to  the  attractiveness  of  those  whom  we  know  com- 
monly as  strong  and  self-possessed. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


183 


Edward  was  so  agreeable,  so  gentle,  so  pressing  : he  begged 
to  be  allowed  to  stay  with  her.  He  did  not  demand  it ; but 
half  in  fun,  half  in  earnest,  he  tried  to  persuade  her : he 
never  thought  of  his  rights.  At  last,  as  if  in  mischief,  he 
blew  out  the  candle. 

In  the  dim  lamplight,  the  inward  affection,  the  imagina- . 
tion,  maintained  their  rights  over  the  real : it  was  Ottiliei 
that  was  resting  in  Edward’s  arms ; and  the  captain,  now 
faintly,  now  clearlj',  hovered  before  Charlotte’s  soul.  And' 
so,  strangely  intermingled,  the  absent  and  the  present  flowed 
in  a sweet  enchantment  one  into  the  other. 

And  yet  the  present  would  not  let  itself  be  robbed  of  its 
own  unlovely  right.  They  spent  a part  of  the  night  talking 
and  laughing  at  all  sorts  of  things,  the  more  freely,  as,  the 
heart  had  no  part  in  it.  But  when  Edward  awoke  in  the 
morning,  on  the  bosom  of  his  wife,  the  day  seemed  to  stare  m 
with  a sad,  awful  look,  and  the  sun  to  be  shining  in  upon  a 
crime.  He  stole  lightly  from  her  side  ; and  she  found  herself, 
with  strange  enough  feelings,  when  she  awoke,  alone. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

ii  When  the  party  assembled  again  at  breakfast,  an  attentive 
■ obseiwer  might  have  read  in  the  behavior  of  its  various 
members  the  different  things  which  were  passing  in  their  inner 
thoughts  and  feelings.  The  count  and  the  baroness  met  with 
the  air  of  happiness  which  a pair  of  lovers  feel,  who,  after 
having  been  forced  to  endure  a long  separation,  have  mutually 

[assured  each  other  of  their  unaltered  affection.  On  the  other 
hand,  Charlotte  and  Edward  equally  came  into  the  presence 
of  the  captain  and  Ottilie  with  a sense  of  shame  and  remorse. 
For  such  is  the  nature  of  love  that  it  believes  in  no  rights 
except  its  own,  and  all  other  rights  vanish  away  before  it. 
|l  Ottilie  was  in  child-like  spirits.  For  her,  she  was  almost 
Ii  what  might  be  called  open.  The  captain  appeared  serious, 
fl  His  conversation  with  the  count,  which  had  roused  in  him 
I j feelings  that  for  some  time  past  had  been  at  rest  and  dor- 
i mant,  had  made  him  only  too  keenly  conscious  that  here  he 
1,  was  uotiulfilling  his  work,  and  at  bottom  was  but  squander- 
ing himself  in  a half-activity  of  idleness. 


184 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


Hardly  had  thoir  guests  departed,  Tvhen  fresh  visitors  were 
announced,  — to  Charlotte  most  welcomely,  all  she  wished 
for  being  to  be  taken  out  of  herself,  and  to  have  her  atten- 
tion dissipated.  They  annoyed  Edward,  who  was  longing  to 
devote  himself  to  Ottilie ; and  Ottilie  did  not  wish  for  them 
either,  the  copy  which  had  to  be  finished  the  next  morning 
early  being  still  incomplete.  They  staid  a long  time,  and 
immediately  that  they  were  gone  she  hurried  off  to  her  room. 

It  was  now  evening.  Edward,  Charlotte,  and  the  captain 
had  accompanied  the  strangers  some  little  way  on  foot,  before 
the  latter  got  into  their  carriage  ; and,  previous  to  returning 
home,  they  agreed  to  take  a walk  along  the  water-side. 

A boat  had  come,  which  Edward  had  had  fetched  from  a 
distance  at  no  little  expense ; and  they  decided  that  they 
would  try  whether  it  was  easy  to  manage.  It  was  made  fast 
on  the  bank  of  the  middle  pond,  not  far  from  some  old  ash- 
trees,  on  which  they  calculated  to  make  an  effect  in  their 
future  improvements.  There  was  to  be  a landing-place  made 
there,  and  under  the  trees  a seat  was  to  be  raised  and  archi- 
tecturally  adorned  : it  was  to  be  the  spot  for  which  people 
were  to  make  when  they  went  across  the  water. 

“And  where  had  we  better  have  the  landing-place  on  the 
other  side?’’  said  Edward.  “I  should  thinlv,  under  my 
plane-trees.’’ 

“ The}'  stand  a little  too  far  to  the  right,”  s.aid  the  captain. 
“ You  are  nearer  the  castle  if  you  laud  farther  down.  How- 
ever, we  must  think  about  it.” 

The  captain  was  already  standing  in  the  stern  of  the  lx)at, 
and  had  taken  up  an  oar.  Charlotte  got  in,  and  Edward  with 
her,  — he  took  the  other  oar  ; but,  as  he  was  on  the  jwint  of 
pushing  off,  he  thought  of  Ottilie,  — he  recollected  that  ioin- 
ing  ill  the  sail  would  detain  him  too  long ; who  could  tell 
when  he  would  get  back?  He  made  up  his  mind  shortly  and 
promptly,  sprang  back  to  the  bank,  and,  reaching  the  other 
oar  to  the  captain,  hurried  home,  making  excuses  to  huuself 
as  he  ran. 

Arriving  there,  he  learned  tliat  Ottilie  had  shut  heiself  up.  — 
she  was  writing.  In  siiite  of  the  agreeable  feeling  that  she 
was  doing  something  for  him,  it  was  the  keenest  mortilic.ation 
to  him  not  to  be  able  to  see  her.  His  impatience  increased 
every  moment.  He  wallved  up  and  down  the  large  di’a wing- 
room  : he  tried  a thousand  things,  and  could  not  fix  his  atten- 
tion upon  ail}'.  He  was  longing  to  see  her  alone,  before 
Charlotte  came  back  with  the  captain.  It  was  dark  by  this 
time,  and  the  candles  were  lighted. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


185 


/ 

I 


At  last  she  came  in,  beaming  with  loveliness : the  sense 
that  she  had  done  something  for  her  friend  had  lifted  all  her 
being  above  itself.  She  put  down  the  original  and  her  tran- 
script on  the  table  before  Edward. 

“ Shall  we  collate  them?  ” she  said,  with  a smile. 

Edward  did  not  know  what  to  answer.  He  looked  at  her 
— he  looked  at  the  transcript.  The  first  few  sheets  were 
written  with  the  greatest  carefulness  in  a delicate  woman’s 
hand ; then  the  strokes  appeared  to  alter,  to  become  more 
light  and  free ; bnt  who  can  describe  his  surprise  as  he  ran 
his  eyes  over  the  concluding  page  ? “ For  Heaven’s  salve,” 

he  cried,  ‘ ‘ what  is  tiiis  ? this  is  my  hand  ! ’ ’ He  looked  at 
Ottilie,  and  again  at  the  paper : the  conclusion,  especially, 
was  exactl}’  as  if  he  had  written  it  himself.  Ottilie  said  noth- 
ing, but  she  looked  at  him  with  her  eyes  full  of  the  warmest 
delight.  Edward  stretched  out  his  arms.  “ You  love  me  ! ” 
he  cried  : “ Ottilie,  you  love  me  ! ” They  fell  on  each  other’s 
breast : which  had  been  the  first  to  catch  the  other  it  would 
have  been  impossible  to  distinguish. 

From  that  moment  the  world  was  all  changed  for  Edward. 
He  was  no  longer  what  he  had  been,  and  the  world  was  no 
longer  what  it  had  been.  They  parted  — he  held  her  hands  ; 
they  gazed  in  each  other’s  eyes.  They  were  on  the  point  of 
embracing  each  other  again. 

Charlotte  entered  with  the  captain.  Edward  inwardly 
smiled  at  their  excuses  for  having  staid  out  so  long.  ‘ ‘ Oh ! 
how  far  too  soon  you  have  returned,”  he  said  to  himself. 

They  sat  down  to  supper.  They  talked  about  the  people 
who  had  been  there  that  day.  Edward,  full  of  love  and 
ecstasy,  spoke  well  of  every  one,  — always  sparing,  often  ap- 
proving. Charlotte,  who  was  not  altogether  of  his  opinion, 
remarked  this  temper  in  him,  and  jested  with  him  about  it,  — 
he,  who  had  always  the  sharpest  thing  to  say  on  departed 
visitors,  was  this  evening  so  gentle  and  tolerant. 

With  fervor  and  heartfelt  conviction,  Edward  cried,  “ One 
has  only  to  love  a single  creature  with  all  one’s  heart,  and 
the  whole  world  at  once  looks  lovely ! ’ ’ 

Ottilie  dropped  her  eyes  on  the  ground,  and  Charlotte 
looked  straight  before  her. 

The  captain  took  up  the  word,  and  said,  “It  is  the  same 
with  deep  feelings  of  respect  and  reverence  : we  first  learn  to 
recognize  what  there  is  that  is  to  be  valued  in  the  world, 
when  we  find  oecasiou  to  entertain  such  sentiments  towards 
a particular  object.” 


186 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


Charlotte  made  an  excuse  to  retire  early  to  her  room, 
where  slie  could  give  herself  up  to  thinkiug  over  what  had 
passed  in  the  course  of  the  evening  between  herself  and  the 
captain. 

When  Edward,  jumping  on  shore,  and,  pushing  off  the 
boat,  had  himself  committed  his  ,vife  and  his  friend  to  the 
uncertain  element,  Charlotte  found  herself  face  to  face  with 
the  man  on  whose  account  she  had  been  already  secretly 
suffering  so  bitterly,  sitting  in  the  twilight  before  her,  and 
sweeping  along  the  boat  with  the  sculls  in  easy  motion.  She 
felt  a depth  of  sadness,  very  rare  with  her,  weighing  on  her 
spirits.  The  undulating  movement  of  the  boat,  the  splash  of 
the  oars,  tlie  faint  breeze  pla3’ing  over  the  wateiy  mirror,  the 
sighing  of  the  reeds,  the  long  flight  of  the  birds,  the  fitful 
twinkling  of  the  first  stars,  — there  was  something  spectral 
about  it  all  iu  the  universal  stillness.  She  fancied  her  friend 
was  bearing  her  away  to  set  her  on  some  far-off  shore,  and 
leave  her  there  alone  : strange  emotions  were  passing  through 
her,  and  she  could  not  give  wa}’  to  them  and  weep. 

The  captain  was  describing  to  her  the  maimer  in  which, 
according  to  his  opinion,  the  improvements  should  be  con- 
tinued. He  praised  the  construction  of  the  boat : it  was  so 
convenient,  he  said,  because  one  person  could  so  easiW 
manage  it  with  a pair  of  oars.  She  should  herself  learn 
how  to  do  this  : there  was  often  a delicious  feeling  iu  floating 
along  alone  upon  the  water,  one’s  own  ferryman  and 
steersman. 

The  parting  which  was  impending  sank  on  Charlotte’s^^ 
heart  as  he  was  speaking.  Is  he  saving  this  on  purpose? 
she  thought  to  herself.  Does  he  know  it  yet?  Does  he  sus- 
pect it  ? or  is  it  only  accident,  and  is  he  unconsciously  fore- 
telling me  1113’  fate? 

A weai'3%  impatient  heaviness  took  hold  of  her  : she  begged 
him  to  make  for  laud  as  soon  as  possible,  and  return  with  her 
to  the  castle. 

It  was  the  first  time  the  captain  had  sailed  ou  the 
ponds ; aud  although  he  had,  upon  the  whole,  ascertained 
their  depth,  he  did  not  know  accurately  the  particular  spots.  ; 
Dusk  was  coming  on  : he  directed  his  course  to  a place  where,  i 
he  thought  it  would  be  easy  to  get  on  shore,  and  from  which  i 
he  knew  the  footpath  which  led  to  the  castle  was  not  far  i 
distant.  Charlotte,  however,  repeated  her  wish  to  get  to  i 
laud  quickly  ; and  the  place  which  he  thought  of  being  at  a 1 
short  distance,  he  gave  it  up,  aud,  exerting  himself  as  much  | 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


187 


as  he  possibly  could,  luade  straight  for  the  bank.  Unhap- 
pily the  water  was  shallow,  and  he  ran  aground  some  way 
off  from  it.  Owing  to  the  rate  at  which  he  was  going,  the 
boat  got  stuck;  and  all  his  efforts  to  move  it  were  in  vain. 
What  was  to  be  done  ? There  w'as  no  alternative  but  to  get 
into  the  water  and  carry  hi&  companion  ashore. 

It  was  done  without  difUculty  or  danger.  He  was  strong 
enough  not  to  totter  with  her,  or  gi\'e  lier  anj'  cause  for 
anxiety ; but  in  her  agitation  she  had  thrown  her  arms  about 
his  neck.  He  held  her  fast,  and  pressed  her  to  himself, 
and  at  last  laid  her  down  upon  a grassy  bank,  not 
without  emotion  and  confusion  . . . she  was  still  lying 
on  his  neck  ...  he  once  more  locked  her  in  his  arms, 

I and  pressed  a warm  kiss  upon  her  lips.  The  next  moment 
j he  was  at  her  feet : he  took  her  hand,  and  held  it  to  his 
mouth,  and  cried,  — 

I “ Chaiiotte,  will  you  foi’give  me?  ” 

t The  kiss  which  he  had  ventured  to  give,  and  which  she  had 
' all  but  returned  to  him,  brought  Charlotte  to  herself  again  : 
she  pressed  his  hand,  but  she  did  not  attempt  to  raise  him 
I up.  She  bent  down  over  him,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
! shoulder,  and  said, — 

I “ We  cannot  now  prevent  this  moment  from  forming  an 
epoch  in  our  lives,  but  it  depends  on  us  to  bear  ourselves  m 
a manner  which  shall  be  worthy  of  us.  You  must  go  away, 

I my  dear  friend  ; and  you  are  going.  The  count  has  plans 
for  you,  to  give  you  better  prospects  : 1 am  glad,  and  I am 
sorry.  I did  not  mean  to  speak  of  it  till  it  was  certain, 

[but  this  moment  obliges  me  to  tell  you  my  secret.  . . . 

Since  it  does  not  depend  on  ourselves  to  alter  our  feelings, 
. I can  onl\'  forgive  you,  I can  only  forgive  mj’self,  if  we 
have  the  courage  to  alter  our  situation.”  She  raised  him  up, 
took  his  arm  to  support  herself,  and  they  walked  back  to  the 
castle  without  speaking. 

But  now  she  was  standing  in  her  own  room,  where  she 
could  not  but  feel  and  know  that  she  was  Edward’s  wife. 

[ Her  strength,  and  the  ^'arious  discipline  in  which  through 
life  she  had  trained  herself,  came  to  her  assistance  in  the 
conflict.  Accustomed  as  she  had  always  been  to  look 
steadily  into  herself  and  to  control  herself,  slie  did  not  now 
find  it  difficult,  with  an  earnest  effort,  to  come  to  the  reso- 
lution which  she  desired.  She  could  almost  smile  when  she 
remembered  the  strange  visit  of  the  night  before.  Sud- 
denly she  was  seized  with  a wonderful  instinctive  feeling,  a 


188 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


thrill  of  fearful  delight  which  changed  into  holy  hope  and 
longing.  Slie  knelt  earnestly  down,  and  repeated  the  oath 
which  she  had  taken  to  Edward  before  the  altar. 

Friendsliip,  affection,  renunciation,  floated  in  glad,  happy 
images  before  her.  She  felt  restored  to  health  and  to  her- 
self. A sweet  weariness  came  over  her,  and  she  calmly  feU 
asleep. 


CHAPTER  Xm. 

Edward,  on  his  pail,  was  in  a very  different  temper. 

So  little  he  thought  of  sleeping,  that  it  did  not  once  occur 
to  him  even  to  undress  himself.  A thousand  times  he 
kissed  the  transcript  of  the  document ; but  it  was  the  begin- 
ning of  it,  in  Ottilie’s  childish,  timid  hand : the  end  he  ^ 
scarcely  dared  to  kiss,  for  he  thought  it  was  his  own  hand 
which  he  saw.  Oh,  that  it  were  another  document ! he  ’ 
whispered  to  himself ; and,  as  it  was,  he  felt  it  was  the 
sweetest  assurance  that  his  highest  wish  would  be  fulfilled. 
Thus  it  remained  in  his  hands,  thus  he  continued  to  press 
it  to  his  heart,  although  disfigured  by  a third  name  sub- 
scribed to  it.  The  waning  moon  rose  up  over  the  wood. 
The  warmth  of  the  night  drew  Edward  out  into  the  free 
air.  He  wandered  this  way  and  that  way : he  was  at  once 
the  most  restless  and  the  happiest  of  mortals.  He  sti’ayed 
through  the  gardens  — they  seemed  too  narrow  for  him  ; 
he  hurried  out  into  the  park,  and  it  was  too  wide.  He  was 
drawn  back  toward  the  castle : he  stood  under  Ottilie’s 
window.  He  threw  himself  down  on  the  steps  of  the  terrace 
below.  “ Walls  and  bolts.”  he  said  to  himself.  ‘‘  may  still 
divide  us,  but  our  hearts  are  not  divided.  If  she  were  here 
before  me,  into  my  arms  she  would  fall,  and  I into  hers ; 
and  what  can  one  desire  but  that  sweet  certaint}'  I ’ ’ All 
was  stillness  round  him ; not  a breath  was  moving : so 
still  it  was,  that  he  could  hear  the  unresting  ereatui-es  un- 
derground at  their  work,  to  whom  day  or  night  are  alike. 
He  abandoned  himself  to  his  delicious  dreams  : at  last  he 
fell  asleep,  and  did  not  wake  till  the  sun  with  his  royal 
beams  was  mounting  up  in  the  sky  and  scattering  the  early 
mists. 

He  found  that  he  was  the  first  person  awake  on  his  do- 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


189 


main.  The  laborers  seemed  to  be  sta3'ing  away  too  long ; 
they  came  ; he  thought  the^'  were  too  few,  and  the  work  set 
out  for  the  day  too  slight  for  his  desires.  He  inquired  for 
more  worlanen  : thej"  were  promised,  and  in  the  course  of 
the  day  they  came.  But  tliese,  too,  were  not  enough  for 
him  to  carry  his  plans  out  as  rapidly  as  he  wished.  To 
do  the  work  gave  him  no  pleasure  an_y  longer : it  should 
all  be  done.  And  for  whom?  The  paths  sliould  be  grav- 
elled, that  Ottilie  might  walk  pleasantly  upon  them  ; seats 
should  be  made  at  every  spot  and  corner,  that  Ottilie  might 
rest  on  them.  The  new  building,  too,  was  hurried  for- 
ward. It  should  be  finished  for  Ottiiie’s  birthda3\  In  all 
he  thought  and  all  he  did,  there  was  no  more  moderatiou. 
The  sense  of  loving  and  of  being  loved  urged  him  out  iuto 
the  unlimited.  How  changed  was  now  to  liim  the  look  of 
all  the  rooms,  their  furniture  and  their  decorations ! He 
did  not  feel  as  if  he  was  in  his  own  house  anj"  more.: 
Ottiiie’s  presence  absorbed  every  thing.  He  was  utterly  lost 
in  her : no  other  thought  ever  rose  before  him,  no  con- 
science disturbed  him,  every  restraint  which  liad  been  laid 
upon  his  nature  burst  loose.  His  whole  being  centred  upon 
Ottilie.  This  impetuosity  of  passion  did  not  escape  the 
captain,  who  longed  to  prevent,  if  he  could,  its  evil  conse- 
quences. All  those  plans  which  were  now  being  hurried 
on  with  this  immoderate  speed  had  been  drawn  out  and 
calculated  for  a long,  quiet,  easy'  execution.  The  sale  of 
the  farm  had  been  completed,  tlie  first  instalment  had  been 
paid.  Charlotte,  according  to  the  arrangement,  had  taken 
possession  of  it.  But  the  very  first  week  after,  she  found 
it  more  than  usually'  necessary  to  exercise  patience  and 
resolution,  and  to  keep  her  eye  on  what  was  being  done. 
In  the  present  hasty  style  of  proceeding,  the  money  which 
had  been  set  apart  for  the  purpose  would  not  go  far. 

Much  had  been  begun,  and  much  ymt  remained  to  be  done. 
How  could  the  captain  leave  Charlotte  in  such  a situation? 
They'  consulted  together,  and  agreed  that  it  would  Ije  better 
that  they  themselves  should  hurry  on  the  works,  and  for  this 
purpose  employ  money  which  could  be  made  good  again  at 
the  period  fixed  for  the  discharge  of  the  second  instalment  of 
what  was  to  be  paid  for  the  farm.  It  could  be  done  almost 
without  loss.  They  would  have  a freer  hand.  Every  thing 
would  progress  simultaneously.  There  were  laborers  enough 
at  hand ; and  they  could  get  more  accomplished  at  once,  and 
arrive  swiftly  and  surely  at  their  aim.  Edward  gladly  gave 


190 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


his  consent  to  a plan  which  so  entirely  coincided  with  his 
own  views. 

During  this  time  Charlotte  persisted  with  all  her  heart  in 
what  she  had  determined  for  herself,  and  her  friend  stood  by 
her  with  a like  purpose  manfully.  This  very  circumstance, 
however,  produced  a greater  intimacy  between  them.  They 
spoke  openly  to  one  another  of  Edward’s  passion,  and  con- 
sulted what  had  better  be  done.  Charlotte  kept  Ottilie  more 
about  herself,  watching  her  narrowl}" ; and,  the  more  she 
understood  her  own  heart,  the  deeper  she  was  able  to  pene- 
trate into  the  heart  of  the  poor  girl.  She  saw  no  help  for 
it,  except  in  sending  her  away. 

It  now  appeared  a happy  thing  to  her  that  Luciana  had 
gained  such  high  honors  at  the  school ; for  her  great  aunt, 
as  soon  as  she  heard  of  it,  desired  to  take  her  entirely  to 
herself,  to  keep  her  with  her,  and  bring  her  out  into  the 
world.  Ottilie  could,  therefore,  return  thither.  The  cap- 
tain would  leave  them  well  provided  for,  and  every  thing 
would  be  as  it  had  been  a few  mouths  before ; indeed,  in 
mauj'  respects  better.  Charlotte  thought  she  could  soon 
recover  her  own  place  in  Edward’s  affection  ; and  she  settled 
it  all,  and  laid  it  all  out  before  herself  so  sensibly,  that  she 
only  strengthened  herself  more  completely  in  her  delusion  — 
as  if  it  were  possible  for  them  to  return  within  their  old 
Timits,  — as  if  a bond  which  had  been  violently  broken  could 
again  be  joined  together  as  before. 

In  the  mean  time,  Edward  felt  very  deeply  the  hinderauces 
which  were  thrown  in  his  way.  He  soon  obsen-ed  that  they 
were  keeping  hun  and  Ottilie  separate  ; that  they  made  it 
difficult  for  him  to  speak  with  her  alone,  or  even  to  approach 
her,  except  in  the  presence  of  others.  And,  while  he  was 
augiy  about  this,  he  was  angiy  at  many  things  besides.  If 
he  caught  an  opportunity  for  a few  hasty  words  with  Ottilie, 
it  was  not  only  to  assure  her  of  his  love,  but  to  complain  of 
his  wife  and  of  the  captain.  He  never  felt,  that,  with  his  own 
irrational  haste,  he  was  on  the  way  to  exhaust  the  cash-box. 
He  bitterly  complained,  that,  in  the  execution  of  the  work, 
they  w'ere  not  keeping  to  the  first  agreement : and  yet  he  had 
been  himself  a consenting  party  to  the  second  : indeed,  it 
was  he  who  had  occasioned  it  and  made  it  necessary. 

Hatred  is  a partisan,  but  love  is  even  more  so.  Ottilie 
also  estranged  herself  from  Charlotte  and  the  captain.  As 
Edward  was  complaining  one  day  to  Ottilie  of  the  latter, 
saying  that  he  was  not  treating  him  like  a friend,  or,  under 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


191 


the  circumstances,  acting  quite  uprightly,  she  answered  un- 
thinkingly, “ I have  once  or  twice  had  a painful  feeling  that 
he  was  not  quite  honest  with  you.  I heard  him  say  once  to 
Charlotte,  ‘ If  Edward  would  but  spare  us  that  eternal  flute 
of  his  ! He  can  make  nothing  of  it,  and  it  is  too  disagreea- 
ble to  listen  to  him.’  You  may  imagine  how  it  hurt  me, 
when  I like  accompanying  you  so  much.” 

She  had  scarcely  uttered  the  words  when  her  conscience 
whispered  to  her  that  she  had  much  better  have  been  silent. 
However,  the  thing  was  said.  Edward’s  features  worked 
violently.  Never  had  any  thing  stung  him  more.  He  was 
touched  on  his  teuderest  point.  It  was  his  amusement : he 
followed  it  like  a child.  He  never  made  the  slightest  pre- 
tensions : what  gave  him  pleasure  should  be  treated  with 
forbearance  by  his  friends.  He  never  thought  how  intoler- 
able it  is  for  a third  person  to  have  his  ears  offended  by  in- 
sufficient skill.  He  was  indignant : he  was  hurt  in  a way 
which  he  could  not  forgive.  He  felt  himself  discharged 
from  all  obligations. 

The  necessity  of  being  with  Ottilie,  of  seeing  her,  whisper- 
ing to  her,  exchanging  his  confidence  with  her,  increased  with 
every  day.  He  detennined  to  write  to  her,  and  ask  her  to 
carry  on  a secret  correspondence  with  him.  The  strip  of 
paper  on  which  he  had,  laconically  enough,  made  his  request, 
lay  on  his  writing-table,  and  was  swept  off  by  a draught  of 
wind  as  his  valet  entered  to  dress  his  hair.  The  latter  was 
in  the  habit  of  picking  up  bits  of  paper  which  might  be  l3'iug 
about,  to  try  the  heat  of  the  iron.  This  time  he  got  hold  of 
the  little  note,  and  he  twisted  it  up  hastily : it  was  singed. 
Edward,  obseiwing  the  mistake,  snatched  it  out  of  his  hand. 
After  the  man  was  gone,  he  sat  dovt^u  to  write  it  over  again. 
The  second  time  it  would  not  run  so  readily  off  his  pen.  It 
gave  him  a little  uneasiness : he  hesitated,  but  he  got  over 
it.  He  squeezed  the  paper  into  Ottilie’s  hand  the  first  mo- 
ment he  was  able  to  approach  her.  Ottilie  answered  him 
immediately.  He  put  the  note  unread  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  which.  Toeing  made  short  in  the  fashion  of  the  time, 
was  shallow,  and  did  not  hold  it  as  it  ought.  It  worked  out, 
and  fell  without  his  observing  it  on  the  ground.  Charlotte 
saw  it,  picked  it  up,  and,  after  giving  a hasty  glance  at  it, 
reached  it  to  him. 

“Here  is  something  in  your  handwriting,”  she  said, 
“ which  you  may  be  sorry  to  lose.” 

He  was  perplexed.  Is  she  dissembling?  he  thought. 


192 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


Does  she  know  what  is  in  the  note,  or  is  she  deceived  by  the 
resemblance  of  the  hand  ? He  hoped,  he  believed,  the  latter. 
He  was  warned  — doubly  warned ; but  those  strange  acci- 
dents, through  which  a higher  intelligence  seems  to  be  speak- 
ing to  us,  his  passion  was  not  able  to  interpret.  Rather, 
as  he  went  farther  and  farther  on,  he  felt  the  restraint  under 
which  his  friend  and  his  wife  seemed  to  be  holding  him  the 
more  intolerable.  His  pleasure  in  their  society  was  gone. 
His  heart  was  closed  against  them ; and,  though  he  was 
obliged  to  endure  their  society,  he  could  not  succeed  in  re- 
discovering or  in  re-animating  within  his  heart  any  thing  of 
his  old  affection  for  them.  The  silent  reproaches  which  he 
was  forced  to  make  to  himself  about  it  were  disagreeable  to 
him.  He  tried  to  help  himself  with  a kind  of  humor,  which, 
however,  being  without  love,  was  also  without  its  usual 
grace. 

Over  all  such  trials,  Charlotte  found  assistance  to  rise  in 
her  own  inward  feelings.  She  knew  her  own  detei-mination. 
Her  own  affection,  fair  and  noble  as  it  was,  she  would  utterly 
renounce. 

And  sorely  she  longed  to  go  to  the  assistance  of  the  other 
two.  Separation,  she  knew  well,  would  not  alone  suffice  to 
heal  so  deep  a wound.  She  resolved  that  she  would  speak 
openly  about  it  to  Ottilie  herself.  But  slie  could  not  do  it. 
The  recollection  of  her  own  weakness  stood  in  her  way. 
She  thought  she  could  talk  generall}"  to  her  aliout  the  sort  of 
thing.  But  general  expressions  about  ‘‘the  sort  of  thing” 
fitted  her  own  case  equally  well,  and  she  could  not  bear  to 
touch  it.  Whatever  hint  she  Avould  give  Ottilie  recoiled 
back  on  her  own  heart.  She  would  warn,  and  she  was  obliged 
to  feel  that  she  might  herself  still  be  in  need  of  warning. 

She  contented  herself,  therefore,  with  silentH  keeping  the 
lovers  more  apart,  and  by  this  gained  nothing.  The  slight 
hints  which  frequently  escaped  her  had  no  effect  upon  Ottilie  : 
for  Ottilie  had  been  assured  by  Edward  that  Charlotte  was 
devoted  to  the  captain,  that  Charlotte  herself  wished  for  a 
separation,  and  that  he  was  at  this  moment  considering  the 
readiest  means  by  which  it  could  be  brought  about. 

Ottilie,  led  by  the  sense  of  her  own  innocence  along  the 
road  to  the  happiness  for  which  she  longed.,  only  lived  for 
Edward.  Strengthened  by  her  love  for  him  in  all  good,  more 
light  and  happy  in  her  work  for  his  sake,  and  more  frank  and 
open  towards  others,  she  found  herself  in  a heaven  upon 
earth. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


193 


So,  all  together,  eaeh  in  his  or  her  own  fashion,  reflecting 
or  unreflecting,  they  continued  the  routine  of  their  lives. 
All  seemed  to  go  its  ordinary  way  ; as,  in  monstrous  cases, 
when  every  thing  is  at  stake,  men  will  stUl  live  on,  as  if  it 
were  all  nothing. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

In  the  mean  time,  a letter  came  from  the  count  to  the 
captain,  — two  indeed,  — one  which  he  might  produce,  hold- 
ing out  fair,  excellent  prospects  in  the  distance  ; the  other 
containing  a distinct  offer  of  an  immediate  situation,  a place 
of  high  importance  and  responsibility  at  the  court,  his  rank 
as  major,  a very  considerable  salary,  and  other  advantages. 
A number  of  circumstances,  however,  made  it  desirable,  that, 
for  the  moment,  he  should  not  speak  of  it ; and  consequently 
he  only  informed  his  friends  of  his  remote  expectations, 
concealing  what  was  so  close  at  hand. 

He  went  warmly  on,  at  the  same  time,  with  his  present 
occupation,  and  quietly  made  arrangements  to  secure  the 
works  being  all  continued  without  interruption  after  his 
departure.  He  was  now  himself  desirous  that  as  much  as 
possible  should  be  finished  off  at  once,  and  was  ready  to 
hasten  things  forward  to  prepare  for  Ottilie’s  birthday. 
And  so,  though  without  having  come  to  any  express  under- 
standing, the  two  friends  worked  side  by  side  together. 
Edward  was  now  well  pleased  that  the  cash-box  was  filled 
by  their  having  taken  up  money.  The  whole  affair  went 
forward  at  fullest  speed. 

The  captain  had  done  his  best  to  oppose  the  plan  of 
throwing  the  three  ponds  together  into  a single  sheet  of 
water.  The  lower  embankment  would  have  to  be  made 
much  stronger,  the  two  intenuediate  embankments  to  be 
taken  away ; and  altogether,  in  more  than  one  sense,  it 
seemed  a very  questionable  proceeding.  However,  both 
these  schemes  had  been  already  undertaken  ; the  soil  which 
was  removed  above,  being  carried  at  once  down  to  where  it 
was  wanted.  And  here  there  came  opportunely  on  the 
scene  a young  architect,  an  old  pupil  of  the  captain,  who, 
partly  by  introducing  workmen  who  understood  work  of  this 


194 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


nature,  and  partly  by  himself,  whenever  it  was  possible, 
contracting  for  the  work  itself,  advanced  things  not  a little  ; 
while,  at  the  same  time,  they  could  feel  more  confidence  in 
their  being  securely  and  lastingly  executed.  In  secret,  this 
was  a great  pleasure  to  the  captain.  He  could  now  be  con- 
fident that  his  absence  would  not  be  so  severely  felt.  It 
was  one  of  the  points  on  which  he  was  most  resolute  with 
himself,  never  to  leave  any  thing  which  he  had  taken  in 
hand  uncompleted,  unless  he  could  see  his  place  satisfac- 
torily supplied.  And  he  could  not  but  hold  in  small  respect 
persons  who  introduce  confusion  around  themselves  only  to 
make  their  absence  felt,  and  are  ready  to  disturb,  in  wanton 
selfishness,  what  they  will  not  be  at  hand  to  restore. 

So  they  labored  on,  straining  every  nerve  to  make  Ottilie’s 
birthday  splendid,  without  any  open  acknowledgment  that 
this  was  what  they  were  aiming  at,  or,  indeed,  without  their 
directly  acknowledging  it  to  themselves.  Charlotte,  wholly 
free  from  jealousy  as  she  was,  could  not  think  it  right  to 
keep  it  as  a real  festival.  Ottilie’s  youth,  the  circumstances 
of  her  fortune,  and  her  relationship  to  their  family,  were  not 
at  all  such  as  made  it  fit  that  she  should  appear  as  the  queen 
of  the  day ; and  Edward  would  not  have  it  talked  about, 
because  every  thing  was  to  spring  out,  as  it  were,  of  itself, 
with  a natural  and  delightful  surprise. 

They  therefore  came,  all  of  them,  to  a sort  of  tacit  under- 
standing, that  on  this  d.ay.  without  further  circumstance,  the 
new  house  in  the  park  was  to  be  opened,  and  they  might 
take  the  occasion  to  invite  the  neighborhood,  and  give  a 
holiday  to  their  own  people.  Edward’s  passion,  however, 
knew  no  bounds.  Longing  as  he  did  to  give  himself  to 
Ottilie,  his  presents  and  promises  there  were  no  limits  to. 
The  birthday  gifts  which  on  the  great  occasion  he  was 
to  offer  to  her  seemed,  as  Charlotte  had  arranged  them,  far 
too  insignificant.  He  spoke  to  his  valet,  who  had  the  care 
of  his  wardrobe,  and  who,  consequently,  had  extensive 
acquaintance  among  the  tailors  and  mercers  and  fashionable 
milliners  ; and  he,  who  not  only  understood  himself  what 
valuable  presents  were,  but  also  the  most  graceful  w.ay  in 
which  they  should  be  offered,  immediately  ordered  an  elegant 
box,  covered  with  red  morocco,  and  studded  with  steel  nails, 
to  be  filled  with  presents  worthy  of  such  a shell.  Another 
thing,  too,  he  suggested  to  Edward.  Among  the  stores  at 
the  castle  was  a small  stock  of  fireworks  which  had  never 
been  let  off.  It  would  be  easy  to  get  some  more,  and  have 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


195 


something  reaUy  fine.  Edward  caught  the  idea,  and  his 
servant  promised  to  see  to  its  being  executed.  This  matter 
was  to  remain  a secret. 

While  this  was  going  on,  the  captain,  as  the  day  drew 
nearer,  had  been  making  arrangements  for  a body  of  police 
to  be  present,  — a precaution  which  he  always  thought  de- 
sirable when  large  numbers  of  men  are  to  be  brought  together. 
And,  indeed,  against  beggars,  and  against  all  other  incon- 
veniences by  which  the  pleasure  of  a festival  might  be  dis- 
turbed, he  had  made  effectual  provision. 

Edward  and  his  confidant,  on  the  contraiy,  were  mainly 
occupied  with  their  fireworks.  They  were  to  be  let  off  on 
the  side  of  the  middle  water  in  front  of  the  great  ash-tree. 
The  party  were  to  take  up  their  station  on  the  opposite  side, 
under  the  planes,  that  at  a sufficient  distance  from  the 
scene,  in  ease  and  safety,  they  might  see  them  to  the  best 
effect,  with  the  reflections  on  the  water,  the  water-rockets, 
and  floating-lights,  and  all  the  other  designs. 

Under  some  other  pretext,  Edward  had  the  ground  under- 
neath the  plane-trees  cleared  of  bushes  and  grass  and  moss. 
And  now  first  could  be  seen  the  beauty  of  their  forms,  to- 
gether with  their  full  height  and  spread  right  up  fiom  the 
earth.  He  was  delighted  with  them.  It  was  just  this  very 
time  of  the  year  that  he  had  planted  them.  “ How  long  ago 
could  it  have  been  ? ” he  said  to  himself.  As  soon  as  he  got 
home,  he  turned  over  the  old  diary-books,  which  his  father, 
especially  when  in  the  country,  was  very  careful  in  keeping. 
He  might  not  find  an  entry  of  this  particular  planting ; but 
another  important  domestic  matter,  which  Edward  well  re- 
membered, and  which  had  occurred  on  the  same  day,  would 
surely  be  mentioned.  He  turned  over  a few  volumes.  The 
circumstance  he  was  looking  for  was  there.  How  amazed, 
how  overjoyed  he  was,  when  he  discovered  the  strangest 
coincidence  ! The  day  and  the  year  on  which  he  had  planted 
those  trees,  was  the  very  day,  the  very  year,  when  Ottilie 
was  born. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  long-wished-for  morning  dawned  at  last  on  Edward, 
and  very  soon  a number  of  guests  arrived.  They  had  sent 


I 


196 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


out  a large  number  of  invitations  ; and  many  who  had  missed 
the  laying  of  the  foundation-stone,  which  was  reported  to 
have  been  so  charming,  were  the  more  careful  not  to  be 
absent  on  the  second  festivity. 

Before  dinner  the  carpenter's  people  appeared,  with  music, 
in  the  court  of  the  castle.  They  bore  an  immense  garland 
of  floweis,  composed  of  a number  of  single  wreaths,  winding 
in  and  out,  one  above  the  other ; saluting  the  company,  they 
made  request,  according  to  custom,  for  silk  handkerchiefs 
and  ribbons,  at  the  hands  of  the  fair  sex,  with  which  to  dress 
themselves  out.  While  dinner  was  going  on  in  the  castle, 
they  marched  off,  singing  and  shouting ; and,  after  amusing 
themselves  a while  in  the  village,  and  coaxing  many  a ribbon 
out  of  the  women  there,  old  and  young,  the}’  came  at  last, 
with  crowds  behind  them,  and  crowds  expecting  them,  out 
upon  the  height  where  the  park-house  was  uow  standing. 
After  dinner,  Charlotte  rather  held  back  her  guests.  She 
did  not  wish  that  there  should  be  any  solemn  or  formal  pro- 
cession ; and  they  found  their  way  in  little  parties,  broken 
up  as  they  pleased,  without  rule  or  order,  to  the  scene  of 
action.  Charlotte  staid  behind  with  Ottilie,  and  did  not  i 
improve  matters  by  doing  so.  For  Ottilie  being  really  the 
last  that  appeared,  it  seemed  as  if  the  trumpets  and  the 
clarionets  had  only  been  waiting  for  her,  and  as  if  the  gayeties 
had  been  ordered  to  commence  directly  on  her  arrival. 

To  remove  the  I'ough  exterior  from  the  house,  it  had  been 
hung  with  green  boughs  and  flowers.  They  had  dressed  it 
oufrin  an  architectural  fashion,  according  to  a design  of  the 
captain’s:  only  that,  without  his  knowledge.  Edward  had 
desired  the  architect  to  work  in  the  date  upon  the  cornice  in 
flowers  ; and  this  was  necessarily  permitted  to  remain.  The 
captain  had  only  arrived  on  the  scene  in  time  to  prevent 
Ottilie’s  name  from  figuring  in  splendor  on  the  gable.  The 
beginning,  which  had  been  made  for  this,  he  contnved  to 
turn  skilfully  to  some  other  use,  and  to  get  rid  of  such  of 
the  letters  as  had  been  already  finished. 

The  wreath  was  set  up,  and  was  to  be  seen  far  and  wide 
about  the  country.  The  flags  and  the  ribl)ons  fluttered  gayly 
in  the  air ; and  a short  oration  was.  the  greater  part  of  it, 
dispersed  by  the  wind.  The  solemnity  was  at  an  end.  There 
was  now  to  be  a dance  on  the  smooth  lawn  in  front  of  the 
building,  which  had  lieen  eucloscd  with  boughs  and  branches. 

A handsome  journeyman  carpenter  led  up  to  Edward  a bright 
girl  of  the  village,  and  called  himself  upon  Ottilie,  who  stood 


ELECTIVE  AFFmiTIES. 


197 


out  with  him.  These  two  couples  speedily  found  others  to 
follow  them  ; and  Edward  contrived  pretty  soon  to  change 
partners,  catching  Ottilie,  and  making  the  round  with  her. 
The  younger  part  of  the  company  joined  merilly  in  the 
dance  with  the  people,  while  the  elder  among  them  stood 
and  looked  on. 

Then,  before  they  broke  up  and  walked  about,  an  order 
was  given  that  they  should  all  collect  again  at  sunset  under 
the  plane-trees.  Edward  was  the  first  upon  the  spot,  ordering 
every  thing,  and  making  his  arrangements  with  his  valet,  who 
was  to  be  on  the  other  side,  in  company  with  the  firework- 
maker,  managing  his  exhibition  of  the  spectacle. 

The  captain  was  far  from  satisfied  at  some  of  the  prepa- 
rations which  he  saw  made,  and  he  endeavored  to  get  a 
word  with  Edward  about  the  crush  of  spectators  whicli  was 
to  be  expected.  But  the  latter,  somewhat  hastily,  begged 
that  he  might  be  allowed  to  manage  this  part  of  the  day’s 
amusements  himself. 

The  upper  end  of  the  embankment,  having  been  recently 
raised,  was  still  far  from  compact.  It  had  been  staked  ; but 
there  was  no  grass  upon  it,  and  the  earth  was  uneven  and 
insecure.  The  crowd  pressed  on,  however,  in  great  num- 
bers. The  sun  went  down  ; and  the  com[)any  was  served 
with  refreshments  under  the  plane-trees,  to  pass  the  time 
till  it  should  have  become  sufficiently  dark.  The  place  was 
approved  of  beyond  measure ; and  they  looked  forward  to 
frequently  enjoying  the  view,  over  so  lovely  a sheet  of  water, 
on  future  occasions. 

A calm  evening — a perfect  calm  — promised  every  thing 
in  favor  of  the  spectacle,  when  suddenly  loud  and  violent 
shrieks  were  heard.  Large  masses  of  the  earth  had  given 
way  on  the  edge  of  the  embankment,  and  a number  of 
people  were  precipitated  into  the  water.  The  pressure  from 
the  throng  had  gone  on  increasing  till  at  last  it  had  become 
more  than  the  newly-laid  soil  would  bear,  and  the  bank  had 
fallen  in.  Everybody  wanted  to  obtain  the  best  place,  and 
now  there  was  no  getting  either  backwards  or  forwards. 

People  ran  this  and  that  way,  more  to  see  what  was 
going  on  than  to  render  assistance.  What  could  be  done 
when  no  one  could  reach  the  place  ? 

The  captain,  with  a few  determined  persons,  hurried  down 
and  drove  the  crowd  off  the  emliankment  back  upon  the  shore, 
in  order  that  those  who  were  really  of  service  might  have 
free  room  to  move.  One  way  or  another  they  contrived  to 


198 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


seize  hold  of  such  as  were  sinking ; and,  with  or  without  as- 
sistance, all  who  had  been  in  the  water  were  got  out  safe  upon 
the  bank,  with  the  exception  of  one  boy,  whose  struggles  in 
his  fright,  instead  of  bringing  him  nearer  to  the  emljankment, 
had  only  carried  him  farther  from  it.  His  strength  seemed 
to  1)6  failing  — now  only  a hand  was  seen  above  the  surface, 
and  now  a foot.  Bj'  an  unlucky  chance  the  boat  was  on  the 
opposite  shore  tilled  with  fireworks  : it  was  a long  business 
to  unload  it,  and  help  was  slow  in  coming.  The  captain’s 
resolution  was  taken  : he  flung  off  his  coat ; all  eyes  were 
directed  towards  him,  and  his  sturdy,  vigorous  figure  gave 
eveiy  one  hope  and  confidence  ; but  a cry  of  surprise  rose  out 
of  the  crowd  as  they  saw  him  fling  himself  into  the  water ; 
every  eye  watched  him  as  the  sti’ong  swimmer  swiftly  reached 
the  boy,  and  bore  him,  although  to  appearance  dead,  to  the 
embankment. 

Now  the  boat  came  up.  The  captain  stepped  in,  and 
inquired  of  those  who  were  piesent  whether  all  had  been 
saved.  The  surgeon  was  speedily  on  the  spot,  and  took 
charge  of  the  inanimate  boy.  Charlotte  joined  them,  and 
entreated  the  captain  to  go  now  and  take  care  of  himself,  to 
hurry  back  to  the  castle  and  change  his  clothes.  He  would 
not  go,  however,  till  persons  on  whose  sense  he  could  rely, 
who  had  been  close  to  the  spot  at  the  time  of  the  accident, 
and  who  had  assisted  in  saving  those  who  had  fallen  in, 
assured  him  that  all  were  safe. 

Charlotte  saw  him  on  his  way  to  the  house  ; and  then  she 
remembered  that  the  wine  and  the  tea,  and  every  thing  else 
which  he  could  wmnt,  had  been  locked  up,  for  fear  any  of  the 
seiwants  should  take  advantage  of  the  disorder  of  the  holiday, 
as  on  such  occasions  they  are  too  apt  to  do.  She  hurried 
through  the  scattered  groups  of  her  company,  which  were 
loitering  about  the  plane-trees.  Edward  was  there,  talking 
to  every  one  — beseeching  eveiy  one  to  stay.  He  would  give 
the  signal  directly,  and  the  fireworks  should  begin.  Charlotte 
went  up  to  him,  and  entreated  him  to  put  off  an  amusement 
which  was  no  longer  in  place,  and  which  at  the  present  mo- 
ment no  one  could  enjoy.  She  reminded  him  of  what  ought 
to  be  done  for  the  boy  who  had  been  saved,  and  for  his  pre- 
seiwer. 

“The  surgeon  will  do  whatever  is  right,  no  doubt,”  replied 
Edward.  “He  is  provided  with  every  thing  which  he  can 
want,  and  we  should  only  be  in  the  way  if  we  crowded  about 
him  with  our  anxieties.” 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


199 


Charlotte  persisted  in  her  opinion,  and  made  a sign  to 
Ottilie,  who  at  once  prepared  to  retire  with  her.  Edward 
seized  her  hand,  and  cried,  “We  will  not  end  this  day  in  a 
lazaretto.  She  is  too  good  for  a sister  of  mercy.  Without 
us,  I should  think,  the  half-dead  may  wake,  and  the  living 
dry  themselves.” 

Charlotte  did  not  answer,  but  went.  Some  followed  her ; 
others  followed  these  ; in  the  end,  no  one  wished  to  be  the 
last,  and  all  followed.  Edward  and  Ottilie  found  themselves 
alone  under  the  plane-trees.  He  most  urgently  insisted  on 
staying,  notwithstanding  the  anxiety  with  which  she  entreated 
him  to  go  back  with  her  to  the  castle.  “ No,  Ottilie  ! ” he 
cried:  “the  extraordinary  is  not  brought  to  pass  in  the 
smooth,  common  way,  — the  wonderful  accident  of  this  even- 
ing brings  us  more  speedily  together.  You  are  mine,  — I 
have  often  said  it  to  you,  and  sworn  it  to  you.  We  will  not 
say  it  and  swear  it  any  more  — we  will  make  it  be.” 

The  boat  came  over  from  the  other  side.  The  valet  was 
in  it : he  asked,  with  some  embarrassment,  what  his  master 
wished  to  have  done  with  the  fireworks. 

“ Let  them  off ! ” Edward  cried  to  him,  “ let  them  off ! — 
It  was  only  for  you  that  they  were  provided,  Ottilie  ; and  you 
shall  be  the  only  one  to  see  them.  Let  me  sit  beside  j’ou, 
and  enjoy  them  with  you.”  Tenderly,  timidly,  he  sat  down 
at  her  side,  without  touching  her. 

Rockets  went  hissing  up,  cannon  thundered,  Roman  candles 
shot  out  their  blazing  balls,  squibs  flashed  and  darted,  wheels 
spun  round,  first  singly,  then  in  pairs,  then  all  at  once,  faster 
and  faster,  one  after  the  other,  and  more  and  more  together. 
Edward,  whose  bosom  was  on  fire,  watched  the  blazing  spec- 
tacle with  eyes  gleaming  with  delight;  but  Ottilie,  with  her 
delicate  and  nervous  feelings,  in  all  this  noise  and  fitful 
blazing  and  flashing  found  more  to  distress  her  than  to  please. 
She  leaned  shrinking  against  Edward  : and  he,  as  she  drew 
to  him  and  clung  to  him,  felt  the  delightful  sense  that  she 
belonged  entirely  to  him. 

The  night  had  scarcely  re-assumed  its  rights,  when  the 
moon  rose,  and  lighted  their  path  as  they  walked  back.  A 
figure,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  stepped  across  their  way,  and 
begged  an  alms  of  them  : in  the  general  holiday  he  said  that 
he  had  been  forgotten.  The  moon  shone  upon  his  face,  and 
Edward  recognized  the  features  of  the  importunate  beggar ; 
but,  happy  as  he  then  was,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  be 
angry  with  any  one.  He  could  not  recollect,  that,  especially 


200 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


for  that  particular  day,  begging  had  been  forbidden  under 
the  heaviest  penalties  : he  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket, 
took  the  first  coin  which  he  found,  and  gave  the  fellow  a 
piece  of  gold.  His  own  happiness  was  so  unbounded  that 
he  would  have  liked  to  have  shared  it  with  every  one. 

In  the  mean  time  all  had  gone  well  at  the  castle.  The  skill 
of  the  surgeon,  every  thing  which  was  requii'ed  being  ready  at 
hand,  Charlotte’s  assistance,  — all  had  worked  together,  and 
the  boy  was  brought  to  life  again.  The  guests  dispersed, 
wishing  to  catch  a glimpse  or  two  of  what  was  to  be  seen  of 
the  fireworks  from  the  distance  ; and,  after  a scene  of  such 
confusion,  were  glad  to  get  back  to  their  own  quiet  homes. 

The  captain  also,  after  having  rapidly  changed  his  dress, 
had  taken  an  active  part  in  what  required  to  be  done.  It 
was  now  all  quiet  again,  and  he  found  himself  alone  with 
Charlotte.  Gently  and  affectionately  he  now  told  her  that  his 
time  for  leaving  them  approached.  She  had  gone  through 
so  much  that  evening  that  this  discoveiy  made  but  a slight 
impression  upon  her : she  had  seen  how  her  friend  covdd 
sacrifice  himself ; how  he  had  saved  another,  and  had  himself 
been  saved.  These  strange  incidents  seemed  to  foretell  an 
important  future  to  her,  but  not  an  unhappy  one. 

Edward,  who  now  entered  with  Ottilie,  was  likewise  in- 
formed of  the  captain’s  impending  departure.  He  suspected 
that  Charlotte  had  known  longer  how  near  it  was  ; but  he  was 
far  too  much  occupied  with  himself,  and  with  his  own  plans, 
to  take  it  amiss,  or  care  about  it. 

On  the  contrary,  he  listened  attentively,  and  with  signs  of 
pleasure,  to  the  account  of  the  excellent  and  honorable  posi- 
tion in  which  the  captain  was  to  be  placed.  The  course  of 
the  future  was  hurried  impetuously  forward  by  his  own  secret 
wishes.  Already  he  saw  the  captain  married  to  Charlotte, 
and  himself  married  to  Ottilie.  It  would  have  been  the 
riehest  present  which  any  one  could  have  made  him,  on  the 
occasion  of  the  day’s  festival. 

But  how  surprised  was  Ottilie,  wjien,  on  going  to  her 
room,  she  found  upon  the  table  the  beautiful  box  ! Instantly 
she  opened  it ; inside,  all  the  things  were  so  nicely  packed  and 
arranged,  that  she  did  not  venture  to  take  them  out,  she  scarcely 
even  ventured  to  lift  them.  There  were  muslin,  cambric,  silk, 
shawls,  and  lace,  all  rivalling  each  other  in  delicac}',  beauty, 
and  costliness  : nor  were  ornaments  forgotten.  The  intention 
had  been,  as  she  saw  well,  to  supplj-  her  with  more  than  one 
complete  suit  of  clothes  ; but  it  was  all  so  costljq  so  little  like 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


201 


what  she  had  been  accustomed  to,  that  she  scarcely  dared, 
even  in  thought,  to  believe  it  could  be  really  for  her. 


CHAPTER  XVT. 

The  next  morning  the  captain  had  disappeared,  having  left 
a grateful,  feeling  letter,  addressed  to  his  friends,  upon  his 
table.  He  and  Charlotte  had  already  taken  a half-leave  of 
each  other  the  evening  before.  She  felt  that  the  parting  was 
forever,  and  she  resigned  herself  to  it ; for  in  the  count’s 
second  letter,  which  the  captain  had  at  last  shown  to  her, 
there  was  a hint  of  a prospect  of  an  advantageous  marriage  ; 
and,  although  he  had  paid  no  attention  to  it  at  all,  she 
accepted  it  for  as  good  as  certain,  and  gave  him  up  firmly 
and  fully. 

Now,  thei’efore,  she  thought  that  she  had  a right  to  require 
of  others  the  same  control  over  themselves  which  she  had 
exercised  herself : it  had  not  been  impossible  to  her,  and  it 
ought  not  to  be  impossible  to  them.  With  this  feeling,  she 
began  the  conversation  with  her  husband ; and  she  entered 
upon  it  the  more  openly  and  easily,  from  a sense  that  the 
question  must  now,  once  for  all,  be  decisively  set  at  rest. 

“Our  friend  has  left  us,”  she  said:  “we  are  now  once 
more  together  as  we  were,  and  it  depends  upon  ourselves 
whether  we  choose  to  return  altogether  into  our  old  position.” 

Edward,  who  heard  nothing  except  what  flattered  his  own 
passion,  believed  that  Charlotte,  in  these  words,  was  alluding 
to  her  previous  widowed  state,  and,  in  a roundabout  way,  was 
making  a suggestion  for  a separation  ; so  that  he  answered, 
with  a laugh,  “ Why  not?  all  we  want  is,  to  come  to  an  under- 
standing.” But  he  found  himself  sorely  enough  undeceived, 
as  Charlotte  continued,  “And  we  have  now  a choice  of 
opportunities  for  placing  Ottilie  in  another  situation.  Two 
openings  have  offered  themselves  for  her,  either  of  which  will 
do  very  well.  Either  she  can  return  to  the  school,  as  my 
daughter  has  left  it,  and  is  with  her  great-aunt ; or  she  can 
be  received  into  a desirable  family,  where,  as  the  companion 
of  an  only  child,  she  will  enjoy  all  the  advantages  of  a solid 
education.” 

Edward,  with  a tolerably  successful  effort  at  commanding 


202 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


himself,  replied,  “ Ottilie  has  been  so  much  spoiled,  by  living 
so  long  with  us  here,  that  she  will  scarcely  like  to  leave  us 
now.” 

“We  have  all  of  us  been  too  much  spoiled,”  said  Charlotte, 
“ and  yourself  not  least.  This  is  an  epoch  which  requires  us 
seriously  to  bethink  ourselves.  It  is  a solemn  warning  to  us  to 
consider  what  is  really  for  the  good  of  all  the  members  of  our 
little  circle,  and  we  ourselves  must  not  be  afraid  of  making 
sacriflees.” 

“At  any  rate,  I cannot  see  that  it  is  right  that  Ottilie 
should  be  sacrificed,”  replied  Edward  ; “ and  that  would  be 
the  case  if  we  were  now  to  allow  her  to  be  sent  away  among 
strangers.  The  captain’s  good  genius  has  sought  him  out 
here  ; we  can  feel  easy,  we  can  feel  happy,  at  seeing  him 
leave  us:  but  who  can  tell  what  may  be  before  Ottilie? 
There  is  no  oecasion  for  haste.” 

“What  is  before  us  is  sufficiently  clear,”  Charlotte 
answered  with  some  emotion  ; and,  as  she  was  deteirnined 
to  have  it  all  out  at  once,  she  went  on.  “You  love  Ottilie: 
every  day  you  are  becoming  more  attached  to  her.  A recip- 
rocal feeling  is  rising  on  her  side  as  well,  and  feeding  itself 
in  the  same  way.  Whj"  should  we  not  acknowledge  in 
words  what  every  hour  makes  obvious?  And  are  we  not  to 
have  the  common  prudence  to  ask  ourselves  in  what  it  is 
to  end?  ” 

“We  may  not  be  able  to  find  an  answer  on  the  moment.” 
replied  Edward,  collecting  himself ; “ but  so  much  may  be 
said,  that,  if  we  cannot  exactly  tell  what  will  come  of  it, 
we  may  resign  ourselves  to  wait  and  see  what  the  future 
may  tell  us  about  it.” 

“ No  great  wisdom  is  required  to  prophesy  here,”  answered 
Charlotte  ; “ and,  at  any  rate,  we  ought  to  feel  that  you  and 
I are  past  the  age  when  people  may  walk  blindly  where  they 
should  not  or  ought  not  to  go.  There  is  no  one  else  to  take 
care  of  us  : we  must  be  our  own  friends,  our  Own  nianagere. 
No  one  expects  us  to  commit  ourselves  in  an  outrage  upon 
deeeney  ; no  one  expects  that  we  are  going  to  expose  our- 
selves to  censure  or  to  ridicule.” 

“ How  can  you  so  mistake  me?”  said  Edward,  unable  to 
reply  to  his  wife’s  clear,  open  words.  “ Can  you  find  it  a 
fault  in  me,  if  I am  anxious  about  Ottilie’s  happiness?  I do 
not  mean  future  happiness,  — no  one  can  eount  on  that. — 
but  what  is  present,  palpable,  and  immediate.  Consider 
— don’t  deceive  yourself  — consider  frankly  Ottilie’s  case. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


203 


torn  away  from  us,  and  sent  to  live  among  strangers.  I,  at 
least,  am  not  cruel  enough  to  propose  such  a change  for 
her.” 

Charlotte  saw  too  clearly  into  her  husband’s  intentions 
through  this  disguise.  For  the  first  time  she  felt  how  far 
he  had  estranged  himself  from  her.  Her  voice  shook  a 
little.  “Will  Ottilie  be  happy  if  she  divides  us?”  she 
said.  “ If  she  deprives  me  of  a husband,  and  his  children 
of  a father  ? ’ ’ 

“Our  children,  I should  have  thought,  were  sufSciently 
provided  for,”  said  Edward  with  a cold  smile,  adding  rather 
more  kindly,  “ but  why  at  once  expect  the  very  worst?  ” 

‘ ‘ The  very  worst  is  too  sure  to  follow  this  passion  of 
yours,”  returned  Charlotte.  “Do  not  refuse  good  advice 
while  there  is  yet  time ; do  not  throw  away  the  means  which 
I propose  to  save  us.  In  troubled  cases  those  must  work 
and  help  who  see  the  eleare^t : this  time  it  is  I.  Dear,  dear- 
est Edward ! listen  to  me  ! Can  you  propose  to  me  that 
now  at  once  I shall  renounce  my  happiness,  renounce  my 
fairest  rights,  renounce  you?  ” 

“ Who  says  that?  ” replied  Edward  with  some  embarrass- 
ment. 

“You  yourself,”  answered  Charlotte:  “in  determining 
to  keep  Ottilie  here,  are  you  not  acknowledging  every  thing 
which  must  arise  out  of  it  ? I will  urge  nothing  on  you ; 
but,  if  you  caunot  conquer  yourself,  at  least  you  will  not  be 
able  much  longer  to  deceive  yourself.” 

Edward  felt  how  right  she  was.  It  is  fearful  to  hear 
spoken  out  in  words  what  the  heart  has  gone  on  long  per- 
miding  to  itself  in  secret.  To  escape  only  for  a moment, 
Edward  answered,  “It  is  not  vet  clear  to  me  what  you 
want.” 

“ My  intention,”  she  replied,  “ was  to  talk  over  with  you 
these  two  proposals  : each  of  them  has  its  advantages.  The 
school  would  be  best  suited  to  her,  as  she  now  is  ; but  the 
other  situation  is  larger  and  wider,  and  promises  more,  when 
I think  what  she  may  become.”  She  then  detailed  to  her 
husband  circumstantially  what  would  lie  before  Ottilie  in 
each  position,  and  concluded  with  the  words,  “ For  my  own 
part,  I should  prefer  the  lady’s  house  to  the  school,  for  more 
reasons  than  one,  but  particularly  because  I should  not  like 
the  affection,  the  love  indeed,  of  the  young  man  there  which 
Ottilie  has  gained,  to  increase.” 

Edward  appeared  to  assent,  but  only  in  order  to  find  some 


204 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


means  of  delay.  Chaiiotte,  who  desired  to  commit  him  to 
a definite  step,  seized  the  opportunity,  as  Edward  made 
no  immediate  opposition,  to  settle  Ottilie’s  departure,  for 
which  she  had  already  privately  made  all  preparations,  for  the 
next  day. 

Edward  shuddered : he  thought  he  was  betrayed.  His 
wife’s  affectionate  speech  he  fancied  was  an  artfully  con- 
trived trick  to  separate  him  forever  from  his  happiness.  He 
appeared  to  leave  the  thing  entirely  to  her,  but  in  his  heart 
his  resolution  was  already  taken.  To  gain  time  to  breathe, 
to  put  off  the  immediate,  intolerable  miseiy  of  Ottilie’s 
being  sent  away,  he  determined  to  leave  his  house.  He  told 
Charlotte  he  was  going ; but  he  had  blinded  her  to  his  real 
reason  by  telling  her  that  he  would  not  be  present  at  Ottilie’s 
departui’e,  indeed,  that  from  that  moment  he  would  see  her 
no  more.  Charlotte,  who  believed  that  she  had  gained  her 
point,  approved  most  cordially.  He  ordered  his  horse,  gave 
his  valet  the  necessaiy  directions  what  to  pack  up,  and 
where  he  should  follow  him ; and  then,  on  the  point  of 
departure,  he  sat  down  and  wrote,  — 

“edwakd  to  charlotte. 

“The  misfortune,  my  love,  which  has  befallen  us  may  or 
may  not  admit  of  remedy  ; only  this  I feel,  that,  if  I am  not 
at  once  to  be  driven  to  despair,  I must  find  some  means  of 
delay  for  myself  and  for  all  of  us.  In  making  myself  the 
sacrifice,  I have  a right  to  make  a request.  I am  leaving 
my  home,  and  I only  return  to  it  under  happier  and  more 
peaceful  auspices.  While  I am  away,  you  keep  possession 
of  it  — but  ivith  Ottilie.  I choose  to  know  that  she  is  with 
you,  and  not  among  strangers.  Take  care  of  her : treat  her 
as  you  have  treated  her,  only  more  lovingly,  more  kindly, 
more  tenderly  ! I promise  that  I will  not  attempt  any  secret 
intercourse  with  her.  Leave  me,  as  long  a time  as  you 
please,  without  knowing  any  thing  about  you.  I will  not 
allow  myself  to  be  anxious,  nor  need  j’ou  be  uneasy  about 
me  ; only,  with  all  my  heart  and  soul,  I beseech  you.  make 
no  attempt  to  send  Ottilie  away,  or  to  introduce  her  into 
any  other  situation.  Beyond  the  circle  of  the  castle  and  the 
park,  placed  in  the  hands  of  strangers,  she  belongs  to  me : 
and  I will  take  possession  of  her ! If  you  have  any  regard 
for  my  affection,  for  my  wishes,  for  my  sufferings,  you  will 
leave  me  alone  to  my  madness  ; and,  if  any  hope  of  recovery 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


206 


from  it  should  ever  hereafter  offer  itself  to  me,  I will  not 
I’esist.” 

This  last  sentence  had  proceeded  from  his  pen,  not  from 
his  heart.  Even  when  he  saw  it  upon  the  paper,  he  began 
bitterly  to  weep.  That  he,  under  any  circumstances,  should 
renounce  the  happiness  — even  the  wretchedness  — of  loving 
Ottilie  ! He  only  now  began  to  feel  what  he  was  doing  : he 
was  going  away  without  knowing  what  was  to  be  the  result. 
At  any  rate,  he  was  not  to  see  her  again  now : with  what 
certainty  could  he  promise  himself  that  he  would  ever  see 
her  again?  But  the  letter  was  written,  the  horses  were  at 
the  door : every  moment  he  was  afraid  he  might  see  Ottilie 
somewhere,  and  then  his  whole  purpose  would  go  to  the  winds. 
He  collected  himself : he  remembered,  that,  at  any  rate,  he 
would  be  able  to  return  at  any  moment  he  pleased,  and  that 
' by  his  absence  he  would  have  advanced  nearer  to  his  wishes  ; 
on  the  other  side,  he  pictured  Ottilie  to  himself  forced  to 
leave  the  house  if  he  staid.  He  sealed  the  letter,  ran 
; down  the  steps,  and  sprang  upon  his  horse. 

As  he  rode  past  the  inn,  he  saw  the  beggar  to  whom  he  had 
I given  so  much  money  the  night  before,  sitting  under  the  trees  : 

I the  man  was  comfortably  enjoying  his  dinner,  and,  as  Edward 
passed,  stood  up,  and  made  him  the  humblest  obeisance, 
i That  figure  had  appeared  to  him  yesterday,  when  Ottilie  w^as 
on  his  arm  ; now  it  only  served  as  a bitter  reminiscence  of  the 
happiest  hour  of  his  life.  His  grief  redoubled.  The  feeling 
of  what  he  was  leaving  behind  was  intolerable.  He  looked 
again  at  the  beggar.  “Happy  wretch  ! ” he  cried,  “you  can 
j still  feed  upon  the  alms  of  yesterday,  and  I cannot  any 
Si  more  on  the  happiness  of  yesterday  ! ” 

[ 


5 CHAPTER  XVII. 

^ i Ottilik  heard  some  one  ride  away,  and  went  to  the  wiii- 
I dow  in  time  just  to  catch  a sight  of  Edward’s  back.  It  was 
strange,  she  thought,  that  he  should  have  left  the  house  with- 

nout  seeing  her,  without  having  even  wished  her  good-morning. 
She  grew  uncomfortable  ; and  her  anxiety  did  not  diminish 
when  Charlotte  took  her  out  for  a long  walk,  and  talked  of 


206 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


various  other  things,  but  not  once,  and  apparently  on  pur- 
pose, mentioning  her  husband.  When  they  returned,  she 
found  tlie  table  laid  only  with  two  covers. 

It  is  unpleasant  to  miss  even  the  most  trifling  thing  to  which 
we  have  been  accustomed.  In  serious  things,  such  a loss 
becomes  miserably  painful.  Fidward  and  the  captain  were 
not  tliere.  This  liad  been  the  first  time  after  a long  interval 
that  Charlotte  herself  had  set  out  the  table,  and  it  seemed 
to  Ottilie  as  if  she  was  deposed.  The  two  ladies  sat  opi>osite 
each  other : Charlotte  talked,  without  the  least  embarrass- 
ment, of  the  captain  and  his  appointment,  and  of  the  little 
hope  tiiere  was  of  seeing  him  again  for  a long  time.  The 
onljf  comfort  Ottilie  could  find  for  herself  was  in  the  idea  that 
Edwai’d  had  ridden  after  his  friend,  to  accompany  him  a part 
of  his  journey. 

On  rising  from  table,  however,  they  saw  Edward’s  travel- 
ling carriage  under  the  window.  Charlotte,  a little  as  if  she 
was  put  out,  asked  who  had  had  it  brought  round  there.  She 
was  told  it  was  the  valet,  who  had  some  things  there  to  pack 
up.  It  required  all  Ottilie’s  self-command  to  conceal  her 
wonder  and  her  distress. 

The  valet  came  in,  and  asked  if  they  would  be  so  good  as 
to  let  him  iiave  a drinking-cup  of  liis  master’s,  a pair  of  silver 
spoons,  and  a number  of  otlier  things,  wliich  seemed  to  Ottilie 
to  implj’  that  he  had  gone  some  distance,  and  would  be  away 
for  a long  time. 

Charlotte  gave  him  a veiy  cold,  dry  answer.  She  did  not 
know  what  he  meant,  — he  had  evciy  thing  belonging  to  his 
master  under  his  own  care.  What  the  man  wanted  was,  to 
speak  a word  to  Ottilie,  and  on  some  pretence  or  other  to  get 
her  out  of  the  room  : he  made  some  clever  excuse,  and  per- 
sisted in  his  request  so  far  that  Ottilie  asked  if  she  sliould  go 
to  look  for  the  things  for  him?  But  Charlotte  quietly  said 
that  she  had  better  not.  The  valet  had  to  depart,  and  the 
carriage  rolled  away. 

It  was  a dreadful  moment  for  Ottilie.  She  uudei’stood 
nothing,  comprehended  nothing.  She  could  onl}’  feel  that 
Edward  had  been  parted  from  her  for  a long  time.  Charlotte 
felt  for  her  situation,  and  left  her  to  hei-self. 

We  will  not  attempt  to  describe  what  she  went  through, 
or  how  she  wept.  She  suffered  infinitely.  She  prayed  that 
God  would  help  her  011I3"  over  this  one  daj-.  The  day  passed, 
and  the  night ; and,  when  she  came  to  herself  again,  she  felt 
herself  a changed  being. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


207 


She  had  not  regained  her  composure.  She  was  not  re- 
signed : hut,  after  having  lost  what  she  had  lost,  she  was  still 
alive  ; and  there  was  still  something  for  her  to  fear.  Her 
anxiety,  after  returning  to  consciousness,  was  at  once  lest, 
now  that  the  gentlemen  were  gone,  she  might  be  sent  away 
too.  She  never  guessed  at  Edward’s  threats,  which  had 
secured  her  remaining  with  her  aunt.  Yet  Charlotte’s  man- 
ner served  partially  to  re-assure  her.  The  latter  exerted  her-  ► 
self  to  find  employment  for  the  poor  girl,  and  hardly  ever  — 
never  if  she  could  help  it  — left  her  out  of  her  sight ; and 
although  she  knew  well  how  little  words  can  do  against  the 
power  of  passion,  yet  she  knew,  too,  the  sure  though  slow 
influence  of  thought  and  reflection,  and  therefore  missed  no 
opportunity  of  inducing  Ottilie  to  talk  with  her  on  every 
variety  of  subject. 

It  was  no  little  comfort  to  Ottilie  when  one  day  Charlotte 
took  an  opportunity  of  making  (she  did  it  on  purpose)  the 
wise  obsei’vatiou,  “ How  keenl}' grateful  people  were  to  us 
when  we  were  able  bj'  stilling  and  calming  them  to  help  them 
oat  of  the  entanglements  of  passion  ! Let  ns  set  cheerfully 
to  work,”  she  said,  “ at  what  the  men  have  left  incomplete : 
we  shall  be  preparing  the  most  charming  surprise  for  them 
when  they  return  to  us,  and  our  temperate  proceedings  will 
have  carried  through  and  executed  what  their  impatient 
natures  would  have  spoiled.” 

‘‘  Speaking  of  temuerance,  my  dear  aunt,  I cannot  help 
saying  how  I am  struck  with  the  intemperance  of  men, 
particularly  in  respect  of  wine.  It  has  often  pained  and 
distressed  me,  when  I have  observed  how,  for  hours  together, 
clearness  of  understanding,  judgment,  considerateness,  and 
whatever  is  most  amiable  about  them,  will  be  utterly  gone, 
and,  instead  of  the  good  which  they  might  have  done  if  they 
had  been  themselves,  most  disagreeable  things  sometimes 
threaten.  How  often  may  not  wrong,  rash  determinations 
have  arisen  entirely  from  that  one  cause  ! ’ ’ 

Charlotte  assented,  but  she  did  not  go  on  with  the  subject. 
She  saw  only  too  clearly  that  it  was  Edward  of  whom  Ottilie 
was  thinking.  It  was  not  exactly  habitual  with  him,  but 
he  allowed  himself  much  more  frequently  than  was  at  all 
desirable  to  stimulate  his  enjoyment  and  his  power  of  talk- 
ing and  acting  by  such  indulgence.  If  what  Charlotte  had 
just  said  had  set  Ottilie  thinking  again  about  men,  and 
particularly  about  Edward,  she  was  all  the  more  struck  and 
startled  when  her  aunt  began  to  speak  of  the  impending 


208 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


marriage  of  the  captain  as  of  a thing  quite  settled  and  ac- 
knowledged, whereby  every  thing  appeared  quite  different 
from  what  Edward  had  previously  led  her  to  entertain.  It 
made  her  watch  every  expression  of  Charlotte’s,  every  hint, 
every  action,  every  step.  Ottilie  had  become  jealous,  sharp- 
eyed,  and  suspicious,  without  knowing  it. 

Meanwhile,  Charlotte  watlr  her  clear  glance  looked  through 
. all  the  circumstances  of  their  situation,  and  made  arrange- 
ments which  would  pi’ovide,  among  other  advantages,  full 
employment  for  Ottilie.  She  contracted  her  household,  not 
parsirrrouiorrsly,  but  into  narTower  dimensions ; and  indeed, 
in  one  point  of  view,  these  mor-al  aberrations  might  be  taken 
for  a not  unfortunate  accident.  For  in  the  style  iu  which 
they  had  been  going  on,  they  had  fallen  imperceptibly  into 
extravagance  ; and  from  a want  of  seasonable  rehection,  fi'om 
the  rate  at  which  they  had  been  living,  and  from  the  variety 
of  schemes  into  which  they  had  been  launching  out,  their 
fine  fortune,  which  had  been  in  excellent  condition,  had  been 
shaken,  if  not  seriously  injured. 

She  did  not  interfere  with  the  improvements  going  on  in 
the  park,  but,  on  the  contrary,  sought  to  advance  whatever 
might  form  a basis  for  future  operations.  But  here,  too,  she 
assigned  herself  a limit.  Her  husband  on  his  return  should 
still  find  abundance  to  amuse  himself  with. 

In  all  this  work  she  could  not  sufficiently  value  the  assist- 
ance of  the  young  architect.  In  a short  time  the  lake  lay 
stretched  out  under  her  eyes,  its  new  shores  turfed  and 
planted  with  the  most  discr  iminating  and  excellent  judgment. 
The  rough  work  at  the  new  house  was  all  finished.  Every 
thing  which  was  necessary  to  protect  it  from  the  weather  she 
took  care  to  see  provided,  and  there  for  the  present  she 
allowed  it  to  rest  in  a condition  iu  Avhich  what  remained  to 
be  done  could  hereafter  be  readily  commenced  again.  Thus 
hour  by  hour  she  recovered  her  spirits  and  her  cheerfulness. 
Ottilie  only  seemed  to  have  done  so.  She  was  only  forever 
watching,  in  all  that  was  said  and  done,  for  symptoms  which 
might  show  her  whether  Edward  would  be  soon  returning ; 
<^hd  this  one  thought  was  the  only  one  iu  which  she  felt  any 
interest. 

She  therefore  welcomed  the  proposal  that  they  should  get 
together  the  boys  of  the  peasants,  and  employ  them  iu  keep- 
ing the  park  clean  and  neat.  Edward  had  long  entertained 
the  idea,  A pleasant-lookiug  sort  of  uniform  was  made  for 
them,  which  they  were  to  put  on  in  the  evenings,  after  they 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


209 


/laci  been  properly  cleaned  and  washed.  The  wardrobe  was 
kept  in  the  castle;  the  more  sensible  and  readj^  of  the  boys 
themselves  were  intrusted  with  the  management  of  it,  the 
architect  acting  as  cliief  director.  In  a very  short  time,  the 
children  acquired  a kind  of  character.  It  was  found  easy  to 
mould  them  into  what  was  desired,  and  the}'  went  through 
tlieir  work  not  without  a sort  of  manojuvre.  As  they  marched 
along,  with  their  garden-shears,  their  long-handled  pruning- 
knives,  their  rakes,  their  little  spades  and  hoes  and  sweeping- 
brooms  ; others  following  after  these  with  baskets  to  carry 
off  the  stones  and  rubbish  ; and  others,  last  of  all,  trailing 
along  the  heavy  iron  roller,  — it  was  a thoroughly  pretty, 
delightful  procession.  The  architect  observed  in  it  a beau- 
tiful series  of  situations  and  occiqiations  to  ornament  the 
frieze  of  a garden-house.  Ottilie,  on  the  otlier  hand,  could 
see  nothing  in  it  but  a kind  of  parade,  to  salute  the  master 
of  the  house  on  his  near  return. 

And  this  stimulated  her,  and  made  her  wish  to  begin  some- 
thing of  the  sort  herself.  They  had  before  endeavored  to 
encourage  the  girls  of  the  village  in  knitting  and  sewing 
and  spinning,  and  whatever  else  women  could  dn  ; and,  since 
what  had  been  done  for  the  improvement  of  the  village  itself, 
there  had  been  a i)erceptible  advance  in  these  descriptions  of 
industry.  Ottilie  iiad  given  what  assistance  was  in  her  power  ; 
but  she  had  given  it  at  random,  as  opportunity  or  inclination 
prompted  her : now  she  thought  she  would  go  to  w'ork  more 
satisfactorily  and  methodically.  But  a company  is  not  to  be 
formed  out  of  a number  of  girls  as  easily  as  out  of  a number 
of  boys.  She  followed  her  own  good  sense : and,  without 
being  exactly  conscious  of  it,  her  efforts  were  solely  directed 
towards  connecting  every  girl  as  closely  as  possible  each  with 
her  own  home,  her  own  parents,  brothers,  and  sisters  ; and 
she  succeeded  with  many  of  them.  One  lively  little  creature 
only  was  incessantly  complained  of  as  showing  no  capacity 
for  work,  and  as  never  likely  to  do  any  thing  if  she  were 
left  at  home. 

Ottilie  could  not  be  angry  with  the  girl,  for  to  herself  the 
little  thing  was  especially  attached : she  clung  to  her,  went 
after  her,  and  ran  about  with  her,  whenever  she  was  per- 
mitted  ; and^then  she  would  be  active  and  cheerful,  and  never 
tire.  It  appeared  to  be  a necessity  of  the  child’s  nature  to 
I hang  about  a beautiful  mistress.  At  first  Ottilie  allowed  her 
to  be  her  companion  ; then  she  herself  began  to  feel  a sort  of 
affection  for  her;  and,  at  last,  tliey  never  parted  at  all,  and 
Nanny  attended  her  mistress  wherever  she  went. 


210 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


The  latter’s  footsteps  were  often  bent  towards  the  garden, 
where  she  liked  to  watch  the  beautiful  show  of  fruit.  It  was 
just  the  end  of  the  raspberry  and  cherry  season,  the  few  re- 
mains of  which  were  no  little  delight  to  Nannj’.  On  the  ' 
other  trees  there  was  a promise  of  a magnificent  crop  for  the 
autumn  ; and  the  gardener  talked  of  nothing  but  his  master,  h 
and  how  he  wished  that  he  might  be  at  home  to  enjo}^  it. 
Ottilie  could  listen  to  the  good  old  man  forever  1 He  thor-  j 
oughly  understood  his  business  ; and  Edward  — Edward  — ' 
Edward  — was  forever  the  theme  of  his  praise.  ! 

Ottilie  observed  how  well  all  the  grafts  which  had  been  ! 
budded  in  the  spring  had  taken.  “ I only  wish,”  the  gardener 
answered,  “my  good  master  maj' come  to  enjoy  them.  If 
he  were  here  this  autumn,  he  would  see  what  beautiful  sorts 
there  are  in  the  old  castle  garden,  which  the  late  lord,  his 
honored  father,  put  there.  I think  the  fruit-gardeners  that 
are  now  don’t  succeed  as  well  as  the  Carthusians  used  to  do. 
We  find  many  fine  names  in  the  catalogue  ; and  then  we 
bud  from  them,  and  bring  up  the  shoots  ; and.  at  last,  when 
they  come  to  bear,  it  is  not  worth  while  to  have  such  trees 
standing  in  our  garden.” 

Over  and  over  again,  whenever  the  faithful  old  servant  saw 
Ottilie,  he  asked  when  his  master  might  be  expected  home  ; 
and,  when  Ottilie  had  nothing  to  tell  him,  he  would  look  vexed 
and  let  her  see  in  his  manner  that  he  thought  she  did  not 
care  to  tell  him  : the  sense  of  uncertainty  which  was  thus 
forced  upon  her  became  painful  be3’ond  measure,  and  yet 
she  could  never  be  absent  fiom  these  beds  and  borders. 
What  vhe  and  Edward  had  sown  and  planted  together  were 
now  in  full  flower,  requiring  no  further  care  from  her.  except 
that  Nanny  should  be  at  hand  with  the  watering-pot : and 
who  shall  saj’  with  what  sensations  she  watched  the  later 
flowers,  which  were  just  beginning  to  show,  and  which  were 
to  be  in  the  bloom  of  their  beaut}'  on  Edward’s  biithday.  the 
holiday  to  which  she  had  looked  forward  with  such  eagerness, 
when  these  flowers  were  to  have  expressed  her  affection  and 
her  gratitude  to  him  ; but  the  hopes  which  she  had  formed 
of  that  festival  were  dead  now,  and  doubt  and  anxiety  never  i 
ceased  to  haunt  the  soul  of  the  poor  girl. 

Into  real,  open,  hearty  understanding  with  Charlotte,  there 
was  no  more  a chance  of  her  being  able  to  return  : for,  j 
indeed,  the  position  of  these  two  ladies  was  veiy  different.  i( 
If  things  could  remain  in  their  old'state,  if  it  were  possible 
that  they  could  return  again  into  the  smooth,  even  way  of  t 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


211 


calm,  ordered  life,  Charlotte  gained  every  thing : she  gained 
happiness  for  the  present,  and  a happy  future  opened  before 
her.  On  the  other  hand,  for  Ottilie  all  was  lost,  — one  may 
say  all,  for  she  had  first  found  in  Edward  what  life  and 
happiness  meant ; and,  in  her  present  position,  she  felt  an 
infinite  and  dreary  chasm  of  which  before  she  could  have 
formed  no  conception.  For  a heart  which  seeks,  does  indeed 
feel  that  it  wants  something ; a heart  which  has  lost,  feels 
that  something  is  gone,  — its  yearning  and  its  longing  changes 
into  uneasy  impatience  : and  a woman’s  spirit,  which  is  accus- 
tomed to  waiting  and  to  enduring,  must  now  pass  out  from 
its  proper  sphere,  become  active,  and  attempt  and  do  some- 
thing to  make  its  own  happiness. 

Ottilie  had  not  given  up  Edward  — how  could  she  ? — al- 
though Charlotte,  wisely  enough,  in  spite  of  her  conviction 
to  the  contrary,  assumed  it  as  a thing  of  course,  and  reso- 
lutely took  it  as  decided  that  a quiet,  rational  regard  was 
possible  between  her  husband  and  Ottilie.  How  often,  how- 
ever, did  not  Ottilie  remain  at  nights,  after  bolting  herself 
into  her  room,  on  her  knees  before  the  open  box,  gazing  at 
the  birthday  presents,  of  which  as  yet  she  had  not  touclied  a 
singie  thing,  — not  cut  out  or  made  up  a single  dress  ! How 
often  with  the  sunrise  did  the  poor  girl  hurry  out  of  the 
house,  in  which  she  once  had  found  all  her  happiness,  away 
into  the  free  air,  into  the  country  which  then  had  had  no 
charms  for  her.  Even  on  the  solid  earth  she  could  not  bear  to 
stay  : she  would  spring  into  the  boat,  and  row  out  into  the  mid- 
dle of  the  lake,  and  there,  drawing  out  some  book  of  ti’avels, 
lie  rocked  by  the  motion  of  the  waves,  reading  and  dreaming 
that  she  was  far  away,  where  she  would  never  fail  to  find 
her  friend,  — she  remaining  ever  nearest  to  his  heart,  and  he 
to  hers.  ® 


CHAPTER  XVm. 

It  may  easily  be  supposed  that  Mittler,  — the  strange,  busy 
gentleman,  whose  acquaintance  we  have  already  made,  — 
when  he  had  received  information  of  the  calamity  that  had 
come  upon  his  friends,  felt  desirous,  though  neither  side  had 
as  yet  called  on  him  for  assistance,  to  give  pi’oof  of  his 
friendship,  and  do  what  he  could  to  help  them  in  their  mis- 


212 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


fortune.  He  thought  it  advisable,  however,  to  wait  first  a 
little  while  ; knowing  too  well,  as  he  did,  that  it  was  more 
difficult  to  persons  of  culture  in  their  moral  perplexities,  than 
the  uncultivated.  He  left  them,  therefore,  for  some  time  to 
themselves  : but  at  last  he  could  withhold  no  longer  ; and  he 
hastened  to  find  Edward,  whom  he  had  already  traced.  His 
road  led  him  to  a pleasant  valley,  with  green,  sweetly  wooded 
meadows,  down  the  centre  of  which  ran  a never-failing 
stream,  sometimes  winding  slowly  along,  then  tumbling  and 
rushing  among  rocks  and  stones.  The  gently  sloping  hills 
w'ere  covered  with  rich  corn-fields  and  well-kept  orchards. 
The  villages  not  being  situated  too  near  each  other,  the  whole 
had  a peaceful  character  about  it ; and  the  detached  scenes 
seemed  designed  expressly,  if  not  for  painting,  at  least  for 
life. 

At  last  he  caught  sight  of  a neatly-kept  fann,  with  a clean, 
modest  dwelling-house  situated  in  the  middle  of  a garden. 
He  conjectured  that  this  was  Edward’s  present  abode,  and 
he  was  not  mistaken. 

As  for  the  latter,  in  his  solitude  he  gave  himself  up  entirely 
to  his  passion,  thinking  out  plan  after  plan,  and  indulging 
in  all  sorts  of  hopes.  He  could  not  deny  that  he  longed  to 
see  Ottilie  there  ; that  he  would  like  to  carry  her  off  there, 
to  tempt  her  there;  and  whatever  else  (putting,  as  he  now 
did,  no  check  upon  his  thoughts)  pleased  to  suggest  itself, 
whether  permitted  or  uupermitted.  Then  his  imagination 
wavered,  picturing  every  manner  of  possibility.  If  he  could 
not  have  her  there,  if  he  could  not  lawfully  possess  her.  he 
would  secure  to  her  the  possession  of  the  property  for  her 
own.  There  she  should  live  for  herself,  silently,  independ- 
ently ; she  should  be  happy  in  that  spot,  — sometimes  his 
self-torturing  mood  would  lead  him  farther,  — be  happy  in  it, 
perhaps,  with  another. 

Thus  days  passed  in  incessant  oscillation  between  hope 
and  suffering,  between  tears  and  happiness,  between  pur- 
poses, preparations,  and  despair.  The  sight  of  Mittler  did 
not  surprise  him  : he  had  long  expected  that  he  would  come ; 
and,  now  that  he  did,  he  was  rather  glad  to  see  him.  He 
believed  that  he  had  been  sent  by  Charlotte.  He  had  pre- 
pared all  manner  of  excuses  and  delays,  and.  if  these  would 
not  serve,  decided  refusals  ; or  else,  perhaps,  he  might  hope 
to  learn  something  of  Ottilie,  — and  then  he  would  welcome 
him  as  a messenger  from  heaven. 

Not  a little  vexed  and  annoyed  was  Edward,  therefore. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES, 


213 


when  Mittler  told  him  he  had  not  come  from  the  castle,  but 
of  his  own  accord.  His  heart  closed  up,  aud  at  first  the 
conversation  was  at  a standstill.  Mittler,  however,  knew 
very  well  that  a heart  pre-occupied  with  love  has  urgent  ueed 
of  utterance,  of  fully  confiding  to  a friend  what  is  passing 
within  it ; and  he  allowed  himself,  therefore,  after  a short 
interchange  of  words,  for  this  once  to  go  out  of  his  charac- 
ter, aud  act  the  part  of  confidant  in  place  of  mediator.  He 
had  calculated  justly.  He  had  been  finding  fault  in  a good- 
natured  way  with  Edward,  for  burying  himself  in  that  lonely 
place,  whereupon  Edward  replied,  — 

“ I do  not  know  how  I could  spend  my  time  more  agree- 
ably. I am  always  occupied  with  her,  I am  always  close  to 
her.  I have  the  inestimable  comfort  of  being  able  to  think 
where  Ottilie  is  at  each  moment,  — where  she  is  going,  where 
she  is  standing,  where  she  is  reposing.  I see  her  moving 
and  acting  before  me  as  usual,  ever  doing  or  designing 
something  which  is  to  give  me  pleasure.  But  this  will  not 
always  answer,  for  how  cau  I be  happy  away  from  her? 
And  then  my  fancy  begins  to  work  : I think  what  Ottilie 
should  do  to  come  to  me  ; I write  sweet,  loving  letters  in  her 
name  to  myself ; and  then  I answer  them,  aud  collect  the 
sheets.  I have  promised  that  I will  take  no  steps  to  seek 
1 her,  and  that  promise  I will  keep.  But  what  ties  her,  that 
she  should  make  no  advances  to  me  ? Has  Charlotte  had  the 
barbarity  to  exact  a promise,  to  exact  an  oath,  from  her,  not 
to  write  to  me,  not  to  send  me  a word,  a hint,  about  herself? 
Very  likelj'  she  has.  It  is  but  natural;  aud  yet  to  me  it  is 
monstrous,  it  is  horrible.  If  she  loves  me,  — as  I think,  as  I 
' know,  she  does,  — why  does  not  she  come  to  a resolution? 
!:  why  does  not  she  venture  to  flee  to  me,  and  throw  herself 
jl  into  my  arms  ? I often  think  she  ought  to  do  it ; and  she 

* could  do  it.  If  I ever  hear  a noise  in  the  hall,  I look  towards 
the  door.  It  must  be  she  — she  is  coming  — I look  up  to  see 
her  enter.  Alas  ! because  the  possible  is  impossible,  I let 
myself  imagine  that  the  impossible  must  become  possible.  At 

' night,  when  I lie  awake,  and  the  lamp  is  casting  an  uncertain 
light  about  the  room,  I wish  her  form,  her  spirit,  a sense  of 
, her  presence,  to  hover  past  me,  approach  me,  seize  me,  but 
for  a moment,  so  that  I might  have  an  assurance  that  she  is 

* thinking  of  me,  that  she  is  mine.  Only  one  pleasure  remains 
' to  me.  When  I was  with  her  I never  dreamed  of  her ; now 

when  I am  far  away,  and,  oddly  enough,  since  I have  made 
; the  acquaintance  of  other  attractive  persons  iu  this  neigh- 


214 


ELECTIVE  AFFI2IITIES. 


borboocl,  for  the  first  time  her  figure  appears  to  me  in  my 
dreams,  as  if  she  would  say  to  me,  ‘ Look  at  them,  and  at 
me.  You  will  not  find  6ne  more  beautiful,  more  lovely, 
than  I.’  And  thus  her  image  mingles  with  my  every  dream. 
In  whatever  happens  to  me  with  her,  our  two  beings  become 
intertwined.  Now  we  are  signing  a contract  together.  There 
is  her  handwriting,  and  there  is  mine ; there  is  her  name. 


and  there  is  mine ; and  they  are  interwoven  with,  extin-  | 
guished  by,  each  other.  Sometimes  she  does  something 
which  injures  the  pure  idea  I have  of  her ; and  then  I feel  | 
how  intensely  I love  her,  by  the  indescribable  anguish  it  :i 
causes  me.  Again,  unlike  herself,  she  will  tease  and  vex  ; 
me  ; and  then  at  once  the  figure  changes,  her  sweet,  round,  | 
heavenly  face  becomes  lengthened : it  is  not  she,  it  is  | 
another  ; but  I lie  vexed,  dissatisfied,  and  wretched.  Laugh 
not,  dear  Mittler,  or  laugli  on  as  you  will.  I am  not  ashamed 
of  this  attachment,  of  this  — if  you  please  to  call  it  so  — 
foolish,  frantic  passion.  No,  I never  loved  before.  It  is 
only  now  that  I know  what  to  love  means.  Till  now,  what  I 
I have  called  life  was  nothing  but  its  prelude,  — amusement,  ' i 
sport  to  kill  the  time  with.  I never  lived  till  I knew  her,  ' 
till  I loved  her  — entirely  and  only  loved  her.  People  have 
often  said  of  me,  not  to  my  face,  but  behind  mj"  back,  that 
in  most  things  I was  but  a botcher  and  a bungler.  It  may 
be  so,  for  I had  not  then  found  in  what  I could  show  myself 
a master.  I should  like  to  see  the  man  who  outdoes  me  in  ' 
the  talent  of  love.  A miserable  life  it  is,  full  of  anguish  ^ 
and  tears  ; but  it  is  so  natural,  so  dear,  to  me,  that  I could  i j 
hardly  change  it  for  another.”  | 

Edward  had  relieved  himself  slightly  by  this  violent  un-  i 
loading  of  his  heart.  But,  in  doing  so,  every  feature  of  his 
strange  condition  had  been  brought  out  so  blearly  before  his 
eyes,  that,  overpowered  by  the  pain  of  the  struggle,  he  burst 
into  tears,  which  fiowed  all  the  more  freel}"  as  his  heart  had 
•been  made  weak  by  telling  it  all. 

Mittler,  who  was  the  less  disposed  to  put  a check  on  his  j 
inexorable  good  sense  and  strong,  vigorous  feeling,  because 
by  this  violent  outbreak  of  passion  on  Edward’s  part  he  saw  I 
himself  driven  far  from  the  purpose  of  his  coming,  showed 
sufficieutty  decided  marks  of  his  disapprobation.  Edward 
should  act  as  a man,  he  said  : he  should  remember  what  he 
owed  to  himself  as  a man.  He  should  not  forget  that  the  i 

highest  honor  was  to  command  ourselves  in  misfortune : to  i 

bear  pain,  if  it  must  be  so,  with  equanimity  and  self-collect-  ’ 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


215 


edness.  That  was  what  we  should  do,  if  we  wished  to  be 
valued  and  looked  up  to  as  examples  of  what  was  right. 

Stirred  and  penetrated  as  Edward  was  with  the  bitterest 
feelings,  words  like  these  could  but  have  a hollow,  worthless 
sound. 

“ It  is  well,”  he  cried,  “ for  the  man  who  is  happy,  who 
has  all  that  he  desires,  to  talk;  but  he  would  be  ashamed 
of  it  if  he  could  see  how  intolerable  it  was  to  the  sufferer. 
Nothing  short  of  an  infinite  endurance  would  be  enough  ; and, 
easy  and  contented  as  he  was,  what  could  he  know  of  an 
infinite  agony?  There  are  cases,”  he  continued,  “yes, 
there  are,  where  comfort  is  a lie,  and  despair  is  a duty.  Go, 
heap  your  scorn  upon  the  noble  Greek,  who  well  knows  how 
to  delineate  heroes,  when  in  their  anguish  he  lets  those  heroes 
weep.  He  has  even  a proverb,  ‘ Men  who  can  weep  are 
good.’  Leave  me,  all  you  with  dry  heart  and  dry  eye. 

Curses  on  the  happy,  to  whom  the  wretched  serve  but  for  a 
spectacle ! When  body  and  soul  are  torn  in  pieces  with 
agony,  they  are  to  bear  it,  — yes,  to  be  noble  and  bear  it,  if 
they  are  to  be  allowed  to  go  off  the  scene  with  applause. 
Like  the  gladiators,  they  must  die  gracefully  before  the  eyes 
of  the  multitude.  My  dear  Mittler,  I thank  you  for  your 
visit ; but  really  you  would  oblige  me  much,  if  you  would  go 
out,  and  look  about  you  in  the  garden.  We  will  meet  again. 
I will  try  to  compose  myself,  and  become  more  like  you.” 

Mittler  was  unwilling  to  let  a conversation  drop,  which 
it  might  be  difficult  to  begin  again,  and  still  persevered. 
Edward,  too,  was  quite  ready  go  on  with  it ; besides  that  of 
itself,  it  was  tending  towards  the  issue  which  he  desired. 

“Indeed,”  said  the  latter,  “this  thinking  and  arguing 
backwards  and  forwards  leads  to  nothing.  In  this  very  con- 
versation I myself  have  first  come  to  understand  m3'self : I 
have  first  felt  decided  as  to  what  I must  make  up  my  mind 
to  do.  My  present  and  my  future  life  I see  before  me : I 
have  to  choose  only  between  misery  and  happiness.  Do  j'ou, 
my  best  friend,  bring  about  the  separation  which  must  take 
piace,  which,  in  fact,  is  already  made ; gain  Charlotte’s  con- 
sent for  me.  I will  not  enter  into  the  reasons  why  I believe 
there  will  be  the  less  difficulty  in  prevailing  upon  her.  You, 
my  dear  friend,  must  go.  Go,  and  give  us  all  peace  ; make 
us  all  happy.” 

Mittler  hesitated.  Edward  continued,  — 

“ My  fate  and  Ottilie’s  cannot  be  divided,  and  shall  not  be 
shipwrecked.  Look  at  this  glass  : our  initials  are  engraved 


216 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


upon  it.  A gay  reveller  flung  it  into  the  air,  that  no  one 
should  drink  of  it  more.  It  was  to  fall  on  tlie  rock  and  be 
dashed  to  pieces  ; but  it  did  not  fall,  it  was  caught.  At  a 
high  price  I bought  it  back  : and  now  I drink  out  of  it  daily 
to  convince  myself  that  the  connection  between  us  cannot 
be  broken  ; that  Destiny  has  decided.” 

“Alas,  alas!”  cried  Mittler,  “what  must  I not  endure 
with  my  friends?  Here  comes  superstition,  which  of  all 
tilings  I hate  the  worst,  — the  most  mischievous  and  accursed 
of  all  the  plagues  of  mankind.  We  trifle  with  prophecies, 
witli  forebodings,  and  dreams,  and  give  a seriousness  to  our 
every-day  life  with  them  ; but  when  the  seriousness  of  life 
itself  begins  to  show,  when  every  thing  around  us  is  heaving 
and  rolling,  then  come  in  these  spectres  to  make  the  storm 
more  terrible.” 

“In  this  uncertainty  of  life,”  cried  Edward,  “poised  as 
it  is  between  hope  and  fear,  leave  the  poor  heart  its  guiding- 
star.  It  may  gaze  towards  it,  if  it  cannot  steer  towards 
it.” 

“Yes,  I might  leave  it;  and  it  would  be  very  well,” 
replied  Mittler,  “ if  there  were  but  one  consequence  to 
expect : but  I have  always  found  that  nobody  will  attend 
to  symptoms  of  warning.  ]\Ian  cares  for  nothing  except 
what  flatters  him,  and  promises  him  fair ; and  his  faith  is 
alive  exclusively  for  the  sunny  side.” 

Mittler,  finding  himself  carried  off  into  the  shadowy  re- 
gions, in  which  the  longer  he  remained  in  them  the  more 
uncomfortable  he  always  felt,  was  the  more  ready  to  assent  to 
Edward’s  eager  wish  that  he  should  go  to  Charlotte.  Indeed, 
if  he  staid,  what  was  there  further  which  at  that  moment 
he  could  urge  on  Edward?  To  gain  time,  to  inquire  in  what 
state  things  wez'e  with  the  ladies,  was  the  best  thing  which 
even  he  himself  could  suggest  as  at  present  possible. 

He  hastened  to  Charlotte,  whom  he  found  as  usual,  calm 
and  in  good  spirits.  She  told  him  readily  of  every  thing 
which  had  occurred ; for,  from  what  Edward  had  said,  he 
had  only  been  able  to  gather  the  effects.  On  his  own  side, 
he  felt  his  way  with  the  utmost  caution.  He  could  not  pre- 
vail upon  himself  even  cursorily  to  mention  the  word  separa- 
tion. It  was  indeed  a surprise  to  him,  but,  from  his  point 
of  view,  an  unspeakablj’  delightful  one,  when  Charlotte,  at 
the  end  of  a number  of  unpleasant  things,  finished  with 
saying, — 

“I  must  believe,  I must  hope,  that  things  will  all  work 


ELECTIVE  AEFIiSriTIES. 


217 


round  again,  and  that  Edward  will  return  to  me.  How  can 
it  be  otherwise,  as  soon  as  I become  a mother?  ” 

“ Do  I understand  you  right?  ” returned  Mittler. 

“Perfectly,”  Charlotte  answered. 

“A  thousand  times  blessed  be  this  news!”  he  cried, 
clasping  his  hands  together.  ‘ ‘ I know  the  strength  of  this 
argument  on  the  mind  of  a man.  Many  a marriage  have  I 
seen  first  cemented  by  it,  and  restored  again  when  broken. 
Such  a good  hope  as  this  is  worth  more  than  a thousand 
words.  Now,  indeed,  it  is  the  best  hope  which  we  can  have. 
For  myself,  though,”  he  continued,  “ I have  all  reason  to  be 
vexed  about  it.  In  this  case  I can  see  clearly  no  self-love 
of  mine  will  be  flattered.  I shall  earn  no  thanks  from  }^ou 
by  my  services  : my  case  is  the  same  as  that  of  a certain 
medical  friend  of  mine,  who  succeeds  in  all  cures  which  he 
undertakes  with  the  poor  for  the  love  of  God,  but  can  seldom 
do  any  thing  for  the  rich  who  will  pay  him.  Here,  thank 
God,  the  thing  cures  itself,  after  all  my  talking  and  trying 
bad  proved  fruitless  ! ’ ’ 

Charlotte  now  asked  him  if  he  would  caiTy  the  news  to 
Edward ; if  he  would  take  a letter  to  him  from  her,  and 
then  see  what  should  be  done.  But  he  declined  under- 
taking this.  “ All  is  done,”  he  cried  : “do  you  write  your 
letter  — any  messenger  will  do  as  well  as  I — I will  come 
back  to  wish  you  joy.  I will  come  to  the  christening  I ’ ’ 

For  this  refusal  she  was  vexed  with  him,  as  she  fre- 
quently was.  His  eager,  impetuous  character  brought  about 
much  good ; but  his  over-haste  was  the  occasion  of  many 
a failure.  No  one  was  more  dependent  than  he  on  the  im- 
pressions which  he  foraied  on  the  moment. 

Charlotte’s  messenger  came  to  Edward,  who  received  him 
half  in  terror.  The  letter  .was  to  decide  his  fate,  and  it 
might  as  well  contain  No  as  Yes.  He  did  not  venture,  for 
a long  time,  to  open  it.  At  last  he  tore  off  the  cover,  and 
stood  petrified  at  the  following  passage,  with  which  it  con- 
cluded : — 

“ Remember  the  night-adventure  when  you  visited  your 
wife  as  a lover,  — how  you  drew  her  to  you,  and  clasped 
her  as  a well-beloved  bride  in  your  arms.  In  this  strange 
accident  let  us  revere  tlio  providence  of  heaven,  which  has 
woven  a new  link  to  bmcl  us,  at  the  moment  when  the 
happiness  of  oui’  lives  was  threatening  to  fall  asunder,  and 
to  vanish.” 


218 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


What  passed  from  that  moment  in  Edward’s  soul  it 
would  be  difficult  to  describe.  Under  the  weight  of  such 
a stroke,  old  habits  and  fancies  come  out  again  to  assist 
to  kill  the  time  and  fill  up  the  chasms  of  life.  Hunting 
and  lighting  are  an  ever-ready  resource  of  this  kind  for 
a nobleman : Edw'ard  longed  for  some  outward  peril,  as  a 
counterbalance  to  the  storm  within  him.  He  craved  for 
death,  because  the  burden  of  life  threatened  to  become 
too  heavy  for  him  to  bear.  It  comforted  him  to  think  that 
he  would  soon  cease  to  be,  and  so  would  make  those  whom 
he  loved  happy  by  his  departure. 

No  one  made  any  difficulty  in  his  doing  what  he  pur-  i 
posed,  because  he  kept  his  intention  a secret.  He  made  1 
his  will  with  all  due  formalities.  It  gave  him  a veiy  sweet 
feeling  to  secure  Ottilie’s  fortune : provision  was  made  for 
Charlotte,  for  the  unborn  child,  for  the  captain,  and  for 
the  servants.  The  war,  which  had  again  broken  out,  fa- 
vored his  wishes ; he  had  disliked  exceedingly  the  half- 
soldieriug  which  had  fallen  to  him  in  his  youth,  and  that 
was  the  reason  why  he  had  left  the  sendee.  Now  it  gave 
him  a fine  exhilarating  feeling  to  be  able  to  rejoin,  it,  under 
a commander  of  whom  it  could  be  said,  that  under  his  con- 
duct death  was  likely  and  victory  was  sure. 

Ottilie,  when  Charlotte’s  secret  was  made  known  to  her, 
bewildered  by  it,  like  Edward,  and  more  than  he,  retired 
into  herself,  — she  had  nothing  further  to  say : hope  she 
could  not,  and  wish  she  dared  not.  A glimpse  into  what 
was  passing  in  her  we  can  gather  from  her  diary,  some  pas- 
sages of  which  we  think  to  communicate. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


219 


PART  II. 

CHAPTER  I. 

There  often  happens  to  us  in  common  life  what,  in  an 
epic  poem,  we  are  accustomed  to  j^u’aise  as  a stroke  of  art 
in  the  poet ; namely,  that  when  the  chief  figures  go  off  the 
scene,  withdi’aw  into  inactivity,  some  other  or  others,  whom 
hitherto  we  have  scarcely  observed,  come  forward  and  fill 
their  places.  And  these,  putting  out  all  their  force,  at  once 
fix  our  attention  and  sympathy  on  themselves,  and  earn  our 
praise  and  admiration. 

Thus,  after  the  captain  and  Edward  were  gone,  the  archi- 
tect, of  whom  we  have  spoken,  appeared  every  day  a more 
important  person.  The  ordering  and  executing  of  a number 
of  undertakings  dei>ended  entirely  upon  him,  and  he  proved 
himself  thoroughly  understanding  and  business-like  in  the 
style  in  whicli  he  went  to  work ; while  in  a number  of  other 
ways  he  was  able  also  to  make  himself  of  assistance  to  the 
ladies,  and  find  amusement  for  their  weary  hours.  His 
outward  air  and  appearance  were  of  the  kind  which  wui 
confidence  and  awake  affection.  A youth  in  the  full  sense 
of  the  word,  well-formed,  tall,  i^erhaps  a little  too  stout ; 
moelest  without  being  timid,  and  easy  without  being  ob- 
trusive, — there  was  no  work  and  no  trouble  which  he  was 
not  delighted  to  take  upon  himself ; and,  as  he  could  keep 
accounts  with  gi’eat  facility,  the  whole  economy  of  the 
household  soon  was  no  secret  to  him : and  eveiywhere  his 
salutary  infiuence  made  itself  felt.  Any  stranger  who  came 
he  was  commonly  set  to  entertain ; and  he  was  skilful, 
either  at  declining  unexpected  visits,  or  at  least  so  far 
preparing  the  ladies  for  them  as  to  spare  them  any  disa- 
greeableness. 

One  day  he  had  a good  deal  of  trouble  with  a young 
lawyer,  who  had  been  sent  by  a neighboring  nobleman  to 
speak  aliout  a matter  wliich,  although  of  no  particular  mo- 
ment, yet  touclied  Charlotte  to  the  quick.  We  have  to 
mention  this  incident  because  it  gave  occasion  for  a number 


220 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


of  things  which  otherwise  might  perhaps  have  remained  long 
untouched. 

We  remember  certain  alterations  which  Charlotte  had 
made  in  the  churchyard.  The  entire  body  of  the  monu- 
ments had  been  removed  from  their  places,  and  had  been 
ranged  along  the  walls  of  the  church,  leaning  against  the 
string-course.  The  remaining  space  had  been  levelled,  ex- 
cept a broad  walk  which  led  up  to  the  church,  and  past  it 
to  the  opposite  gate  ; and  it  had  been  all  sown  with  various 
kinds  of  trefoil,  which  had  shot  up  and  flowered  most  beau- 
tifully. 

The  new  graves  were  to  follow  one,  after  another  in  a 
regular  order  from  the  end,  but  the  spot  on  each  occasion 
was  to  be  carefully  smoothed  over  and  again  sown.  No 
one  could  deny,  that  on  Sundays  and  holida3'S,  when  the 
people  went  to  church,  the  change  had  given  it  a most  cheer- 
ful aud  pleasant  appearance.  At  the  same  time,  the  cler- 
gyman, an  old  man  clinging  to  old  customs,  who  at  first 
had  not  been  especiall}^  pleased  with  the  alteration,  had 
become  thoroughly  delighted  with  it,  all  the  more  because 
when,  like  Philemon  with  his  Baucis,  resting  under  the  old 
linden-trees  at  his  back  door,  instead  of  the  humps  aud 
mounds,  he  had  a beautiful,  clean  lawn  to  look  out  upon  ; 
which,  moreover,  Charlotte  having  secimed  the  use  of  the 
spot  to  the  parsonage,  was  no  little  convenience  to  his 
household. 

Notwithstanding  this,  however,  mauj'  membei-s  of  the 
congregation  had  been  displeased  that  the  means  of  mark- 
ing the  spots  where  their  forefathers  rested  had  been  re- 
moved, and  all  memorials  of  them  thereb}"  obliterated. 
However  well  preserved  the  monuments  might  1^,  they 
eould  only  show  who  had  been  buried,  but  uot,,where  he 
had  been  buried  ; aud  the  ivhere,  as  mauj’  maiutaiued,  was 
every  thing. 

Of  this  opinion  was  a family  in  the  neighborhood,  who 
for  many  years  had  been  in  possession  of  a considerable 
vault  for  a general  resting-place  of  themselves  aud  their 
relations,  and  in  consequence  had  settled  a small  annual 
sum  for  the  use  of  the  church.  And  now  this  young  law- 
yer had  been  sent  to  cancel  this  settlement,  aud  to  show 
that  his  client  did  not  intend  to  pay  it  auj-  more,  because  the 
condition  under  which  it  had  been  hitherto  made  had  not 
been  observed  liy  the  other  party,  and  no  regard  had  been 
paid  to  objection  and  remonstrance.  Charlotte,  who  was 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


221 


the  originator  of  the  alteration  herself,  chose  to  speak  to 
the  young  man,  who,  in  a decided  though  not  a violent 
manner,  laid  down  the  grounds  on  which  his  client  proceeded, 
and  gave  occasion  in  what  he  said  for  much  serious  re- 
flection. 

“You  see,”  he  said,  after  a slight  introduction,  in  which 
he  sought  to  justify  his  peremptoriness,  “ you  see,  it  is  right 
for  the  lowest  as  well  as  for  the  highest  to  mark  the  spot 
which  holds  those  who  are  dearest  to  him.  The  poorest 
peasant,  who  buries  a child,  flnds  it  some  consolation  to 
plant  a light  wooden  cross  upon  the  grave,  and  hang  a gar- 
land upon  it,  to  keep  alive  the  memorial,  at  least  as  long  as 
the  sorrow  remains  ; although  such  a mark,  like  the  mourn- 
ing, will  pass  away  with  time.  Those  better  off  exchange 
these  wooden  crosses  for  others  made  of  iron,  and  fix  and 
protect  them  in  various  ways ; and  here  we  have  endurance 
for  many  years.  But  because  this  too  will  sink  at  last, 
and  become  invisible,  those  who  are  able  to  bear  the  ex- 
pense see  nothing  fitter  than  to  raise  a stone  which  shall 
promise  to  endure  for  generations,  and  which  can  be  restored 
and  made  fresh  again  by  posterity.  Yet  it  is  not  this  stone 
which  attracts  us  : it  is  that  which  is  contained  beneath  it, 
which  is  intrusted,  where  it  stands,  to  the  earth.  It  is  not 
the  memorial  so  much,  of  which  we  speak,  as  the  person 
himself  ; not  of  what  once  was,  but  of  what  is.  Far  better, 
far  more  closely,  can  I embrace  some  dear  departed  one  in 
the  mound  which  rises  over  his  bed,  than  in  a monumental 
wi’iting  which  only  tells  us  that  once  he  was.  In  itself, 
indeed,  it  is  but  little ; but  around  it,  as  around  a central 
mark,  the  wife,  the  husband,  the  kinsman,  the  friend,  after 
their  departure,  shall  gather  again : and  the  living  shall 
have  the  right  to  keep  far  off  all  strangers  and  evil-wishers 
from  the  side  of  the  dear  one  who  is  sleeping  there. 

“And,  therefore,  I hold  it  quite  fair  and  fitting  that  my 
principal  shall  withdraw  his  grant  to  you.  It  is,  indeed,  but 
too  reasonable  that  he  should  do  it ; for  the  members  of  his 
family  are  injured  in  a way  for  which  no  compensation 
could  be  even  proposed.  They  are  deprived  of  the  sad, 
sweet  feelings  of  laying  offerings  on  the  remains  of  their 
dead,  and  of  the  one  comfoi-t  in  their  sorrow  of  one  day 
lying  down  at  their  side.” 

“The  matter  is  not  of  that  importance,”  Charlotte  an- 
swered, “ that  we  should  disquiet  ourselves  about  it  with  the 
vexation  of  a lawsuit.  I regret  so  little  what  I have  done, 


222 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


that  I will  gladly  myself  indemnify  the  church  for  what  it 
loses  through  you.  Only  I must  confess  candidly  to  you, 
your  arguments  have  not  convinced  me  : the  pure  feeling  of 
a universal  equality  at  last  after  death  seems  to  me  more 
composing  than  this  hard,  determined  persistence  in  our 
personalities,  and  in  the  conditions  and  circumstances  of 
our  lives.  What  do  you  say  to  it?  ” she  added,  turning  to 
the  architect. 

“It  is  not  for  me,’’  replied  he,  “either  to  argue  or  to 
attempt  to  judge  in  such  a case.  Let  me  venture,  how- 
ever, to  say  what  mj^  own  art  and  my  own  habits  of  think- 
ing suggest  to  me.  Since  we  are  no  longer  so  happy  as  to 
be  able  to  press  to  our  breasts  the  iuurned  remains  of  those 
we  have  loved  ; since  we  are  neither  wealthy  enough  nor  of 
cheerful  heart  enough  to  preserve  them  undecayed  in  large 
elaborate  sarcophagi ; since,  indeed,  we  cannot  even  find 
place  any  more  for  ourselves  and  ours  in  the  churches,  aud 
are  banished  out  into  the  open  air,  — we  all,  I think,  ought 
to  approve  the  method  which  you,  my  gracious  lady,  have 
introduced.  If  the  members  of  a congregation  are  laid  out 
side  by  side,  they  are  resting  by  the  side  of  and  among  their 
kindred : and,  since  the  earth  has  to  receive  us  all,  I can 
find  nothing  more  natural  or  more  desirable  than  that  the 
mounds,  which,  if  thej'  are  thrown  up,  are  sure  to  sink 
slowly  in  again  together,  should  be  smoothed  off  at  once ; 
aud  the  covering,  which  all  bear  alike,  will  press  lighter 
upon  each.’’ 

“And  is  it  all,  is  it  all  to  pass  away,’’  said  Ottilie, 
“without  one  token  of  remembrance,  without  any  thing  to 
call  back  the  past  ? ’ ’ 

“ By  no  means,’’  continued  the  architect : “ it  is  not  from 
remembrance,  it  is  from  place,  that  men  should  be  set  free. 
The  architect,  the  sculptor,  are  highlj’  interested  that  men 
should  look  to  their  art,  to  their  hand,  for  a continuance  of 
their  being ; and,  therefore,  I should  wish  to  see  well- 
designed,  well-executed  monuments,  not  sown  up  and  down 
by  themselves  at  random,  but  erected  all  in  a single  spot, 
where  they  can  promise  themselves  endurance.  Inasmuch 
as  even  the  good  and  the  great  are  contented  to  surrender 
the  privilege  of  resting  in  person  in  the  churches,  we  may.  at 
least,  erect  there,  or  in  some  fair  hall  near  the  buryiug-place. 
either  monuments  or  monumental  writings.  A thousand 
forms  might  be  suggested  for  them,  and  a thousand  orna- 
ments with  which  they  might  be  decorated.’’ 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


223 


“ If  the  artists  are  so  rich,”  replied  Charlotte,  “ then,  tell 
me  how  it  is  that  they  are  never  able  to  escape  from  little 
obelisks,  dwarf  pillars,  and  urns  for  ashes.  Instead  of 
yoor  thousand  forms  of  which  you  boast,  I have  never  seen 
any  thing  but  a thousand  repetitions.” 

“It  is  very  generally  so  with  us,”  returned  the  architect, 
“ but  it  is  not  universal ; aud  very  likelj^  the  right  taste  and 
the  proper  application  of  it  may  be  a peculiar  art.  In  this 
case  especially  we  have  this  great  difficulty,  that  the  monu- 
ment must  be  something  cheerful,  and  yet  commemorate  a 
solemn  subject ; while  its  matter  is  melancholy,  it  must  not 
itself  be  melancholy.  As  regards  designs  for  monuments  of 
all  kinds,  I have  collected  numbers  of  them  ; and  I will  take 
some  opportunity  of  showing  them  to  you : but  at  all  times 
the  fairest  memorial  of  a man  remains  some  likeness  of  him- 
self. This,  better  than  any  thing  else,  will  give  a notion  of 
what  he  was  : it  is  the  best  text  for  many  or  for  few  notes,  — 
only  it  ought  to  be  made  when  he  is  at  his  best  age,  and  that 
is  generally  neglected.  No  one  thinks  of  preserving  forms 
while  they  are  alive ; and,  if  it  is  done  at  all,  it  is  done  care- 
lessly aud  incompletely : and  theu  comes  death ; a cast  is 
swiftly  taken,  this  mask  is  set  upon  a block  of  stone,  — aud 
that  is  what  is  called  a bust.  How  seldom  is  the  artist  in 
a position  to  put  any  real  life  into  such  things  as  these ! ” 

“You  have  contrived,”  said  Charlotte,  “ without  perhaps 
knowing  it  or  wishing  it,  to  lead  the  conversation  altogether 
in  my  favor.  The  likeness  of  a man  is  quite  independent : 
everywhere  that  it  stands,  it  stands  for  itself  ; aud  we  do  not 
require  it  to  mark  the  site  of  a particular  grave.  But  I 
must  acknowledge  to  you  to  having  a strange  feeling : even 
to  portraits  I have  a kind  of  dislike.  Whenever  I see  them, 
they  seem  to  be  silently  reproaching  me.  The}'  point  to 
somethiug  far  away  from  us,  gone  from  us  ; and  they  remind 
me  how  difficult  it  is  to  pay  right  honor  to  the  present.  If 
we  think  how  many  people  we  have  seen  and  known,  aud 
consider  how  little  we  have  been  to  them,  aud  how  little  they 
have  been  to  us,  it  is  no  very  pleasant  reflection.  We  have 
met  a man  of  genius  without  having  enjoyed  much  with  him, 
a learned  man  without  having  learned  from  him,  a traveller 
without  having  been  instructed,  a man  to  love  without  hav- 
ing shown  him  any  kindness. 

“And  unhappily  this  is  not  the  case  only  with  accidental 
meetings.  Societies  aud  families  behave  in  the  same  way 
towards  their  dearest  members,  towns  towaixls  their  worth!- 


224 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


est  citizens,  people  towards  their  most  admirable  princes, 
nations  towards  their  most  distinguished  men. 

“I  have  heard  people  asked  why  we  heard  nothing  but 
good  spoken  of  the  dead,  while  of  the  living  it  is  never 
without  some  exception.  The  reply  was,  because  from  the 
former  we  have  nothing  any  more  to  fear ; while  the  latter 
may  still,  here  or  there,  fall  in  our  way.  So  unreal  is  our 
anxiety  to  preserve  the  memory  of  others,  generally  no  more 
than  a mere  selfish  amusement ; and  the  real,  holy,  earnest 
feeling  would  be  what  should  prompt  us  to  be  more  diligent 
and  assiduous  in  our  attentions  toward  those  who  still  are 
left  to  us.” 


CHAPTER  II. 

Under  the  stimulus  of  this  accident,  and  of  the  conversa- 
tions which  arose  out  of  it,  they  went  the  following  day  to 
look  over  the  burying-place,  for  the  ornamenting  of  which, 
and  relieving  it  in  some  degree  of  its  sombre  look,  the  archi- 
tect made  many  a happy  pro^wsal.  His  interest,  too,  had 
to  extend  itself  to  the  church  as  well,  a building  which  had 
attracted  his  attention  from  the  moment  of  his  arrival. 

It  had  been  standing  for  many  centuries,  built  in  old  Ger- 
man style,  the  proportions  good,  the  decorating  elaborate 
and  excellent ; and  one  might  easily  gather  that  the  archi- 
tect of  the  neighboring  monastery  had  left  the  stamp  of  his 
art  and  of  his  love  on  this  smaller  building  also : on  the 
spectator  it  still  made  a solemn  and  agreeable  impression, 
although  the  change  in  its  internal  arrangements  for  the 
Protestant  service  had  taken  from  it  something  of  its  repose 
and  majesty. 

The  architect  found  no  great  difficulty  in  prevailing  on 
Charlotte  to  give  him  a considerable  sum  of  money  to  restore 
it  externally  and  internally,  in  the  original  si)irit ; and  thus, 
as  he  thought,  to  bring  it  into  harmony  with  the  resurrec- 
tion-field which  lay  in  front  of  it.  He  had  himself  much 
practical  skill ; and  a few  laborers,  who  were  still  busy  at  the 
lodge,  might  easily  be  kept  together  until  this  pious  work, 
too,  should  be  completed. 

The  building  itself,  therefore,  with  all  its  environs,  and 
whatever  was  attached  to  it,  was  now  carefully  and  thor- 


ELECTIVE  AFFIlSriTIES. 


225 


oughly  examined ; and  then  showed  itself,  to  the  greatest 
surprise  and  delight  of  the  architect,  a little  side  chapel, 
which  nobody  had  thought  of,  beautifully  and  delicately 
proportioned,  and  displaying  still  greater  care  and  pains  in 
its  decoration.  It  contained,  at  the  same  time,  man}"  rem- 
nants, carved  and  painted,  of  the  implements  used  in  the 
old  services,  when  the  different  festivals  were  distinguished 
by  a variety  of  pictures  and  ceremonies,  and  each  was  cele- 
brated in  its  own  peculiar  style. 

It  was  impossible  for  him  not  at  once  to  take  this  chapel 
into  his  plan ; and  he  determined  to  bestow  especial  pains 
on  the  restoring  of  this  little  spot  as  a memorial  of  old  times, 
and  of  their  taste.  He  saw  exactly  how  he  would  like  to 
have  the  vacant  surfaces  of  thfe  walls  ornamented,  and  de- 
lighted himself  with  the  prospect  of  exercising  his  talent  for 
painting  upon  them  ; but  of  this,  at  first,  he  made  a secret  to 
the  rest  of  the  party. 

Before  doing  any  thing  else,  he  fulfilled  his  promise  of 
showing  the  ladies  the  various  imitations  of,  and  designs 
from,  old  monuments,  vases,  and  other  such  things  which 
he  had  made ; and,  when  they  came  to  speak  of  the  simple 
barrow-sepulchres  of  the  northern  nations,  he  brought  a col- 
lection of  weapons  and  implements  which  had  been  found  in 
them.  He  had  got  them  exceedingly  nicely  and  conven- 
iently arranged  in  drawers  and  compartments,  laid  on  boards 
cut  to  fit  them,  and  covered  over  with  cloth ; so  that  these 
solemn  old  things,  in  the  way  he  treated  them,  had  a smart, 
dressy  appearance ; and  it  was  like  looking  into  the  box  of 
a trinket  merchant. 

Having  once  begun  to  show  his  curiosities,  and  finding 
them  prove  serviceable  to  entertain  our  friends  in  their  lone- 
liness, every  evening  he  would  produce  one  or  other  of  his 
treasures.  They  were  most  of  them  of  German  origin, — 
pieces  of  metal,  old  coins,  seals,  and  such  like.  All  these 
things  directed  the  imagination  back  upon  old  times ; and 
when  at  last  they  came  to  amuse  themselves  with  the  first 
specimens  of  printing,  woodcuts,  and  the  earliest  copper- 
plate engraving ; and  when  the  church,  in  the  same  spirit, 
was  growing  out,  every  day,  more  and  more  in  form  and 
color  like  the  past,  — they  had  almost  to  ask  themselves 
whether  they  really  were  living  in  a modern  time,  whether' 
it  were  not  a dream  that  manners,  customs,  modes  of  life,' 
and  convictions  were  all  really  so  changed. 

After  such  preparation,  a great  portfolio,  which  at  last 


226 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


be  produced,  had  the  best  possible  effect.  It  contained, 
indeed,  principally  only  outlines  and  figures  ; but,  as  these 
had  been  traced  upon  original  pictures,  tliej'  retained  per- 
fectly their  ancient  character ; and  most  captivating  indeed 
this  character  was  to  the  spectators.  All  the  figures  breathed 
only  the  purest  feeling  ; every  one,  if  not  noble,  at  any  rate 
was  good ; cheerful  composure,  ready  recognition  of  One 
above  us,  to  whom  all  reverence  is  due  ; silent  devotion,  in  f! 
love  and  tranquil  expectation,  was  expressed  on  every  face,  ! 
on  every  gesture.  The  old  bald-headed  man,  the  curly-pated  ‘ 
boy,  the  light-hearted  youth,  the  earnest  man,  the  gloritied 
saint,  the  angel  hovering  in  the  air,  — all  seemed  happy  in 
an  innocent,  satisfied,  pious  expectation.  The  commonest 
object  had  a trait  of  celestial  life;  and  every  nature  seemed 
adapted  to  the  service  of  God,  and  to  be,  in  some  way  or  ' 
other,  employed  upon  it. 

Towards  such  a region  most  of  them  gazed  as  towards  a 
vanished  golden  age,  or  on  some  lost  paradise  ; onh’.  per- 
haps, Ottilie  had  a chance  of  finding  herself  among  beings 
of  her  own  nature.  Who  could  offer  any  opposition  when 
the  architect  asked  to  be  allowed  to  paint  the  spaces  between 
the  arches  and  the  walls  of  the  chapel  in  the  style  of  these 
okl  pictures,  and  thereby  leave  his  own  distinct  memorial  at 
a place  where  life  had  gone  so  pleasantly  with  him? 

He  spoke  of  it  with  some  sadness ; for  he  could  see,  in 
the  state  in  which  things  were,  that  his  sojourn  in  such  de- 
lightful society  could  not  last  forever,  — indeed,  that  perhaps 
it  would  now  soon  be  ended. 

For  the  rest,  these  days  were  not  rich  in  incidents,  yet 
full  of  occasions  for  serious  entertainment.  We  therefore 
take  the  opportunity  of  communicating  something  of  the 
remarks  Ottilie  noted  down  among  her  manuscripts,  to  which 
W'e  cannot  find  a fitter  transition  than  through  a simile  that 
suggested  itself  to  us  on  contemplating  her  exquisite  pages. 

There  is,  we  are  told,  a curious  contrivance  in  the  service 
of  the  English  marine.  The  ropes  in  use  in  the  roval  navy, 
from  the  largest  to  the  smallest,  are  so  twisted  that  a red 
thread  runs  through  them  from  end  to  end.  which  cannot  be 
extracted  without  undoing  the  whole,  and  by  which  the 
smallest  jiieces  may  be  recognized  as  belonging  to  the  crown. 

Just  so  is  there  drawn  through  Ottilie’s  diary  a thread  of 
attachment  and  affection  which  connects  it  all  together  and 
characterizes  the  whole.  And  thus  these  remarks,  these 
observations,  these  extracted  sentences,  and  whatever  else  it 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


227 


may  contain,  were,  to  the  writer,  of  peculiar  meaning.  Even 
the  few  separate  pieces  which  we  select  and  transcribe  will 
sufficiently  explain  our  meaning. 

FROM  OTTILIE’s  DIARY. 

“To  rest  hereafter  at  the  side  of  those  whom  we  love  is 
the  most  delightful  thought  which  man  can  have  when  once 
he  looks  out  beyond  the  boundary  of  life.  What  a sweet 
expression  is  that,  ‘ He  was  gathered  to  his  fathers ! ’ ” 


“ Of  the  various  memorials  and  tokens  which  bring  nearer 
to  us  the  distant  and  the  separated,  none  is  so  satisfactory 
as  a picture.  To  sit  and  talk  to  a beloved  picture,  even 
though  it  be  unlike,  has  a charm  in  it,  like  the  charm  which 
there  sometimes  is  in  quarrelling  with  a friend.  We  feel, 

' in  a strange,  sweet  way,  that  we  are  divided  and  yet  cannot 
i separate.”  


j “ A person,  in  whose  company  we  happen  to  be,  affords  us, 

I ' sometimes,  entertainment  similar  to  that  of  a picture.  He 
need  not  speak  to  us,  he  need  not  look  at  us,  or  take  any 
j notice  of  us ; we  look  at  him,  we  feel  the  relation  in  which 
;1|  we  stand  to  him ; such  relation  can  even  grow  without  his 
doing  any  tiling  towards  it,  without  his  having  any  feeling 
of  it : he  is  to  us  exactly  as  a picture.” 

||  “One  is  never  satisfied  with  a portrait  of  a person  that 
I one  knows.  I have  always  felt  for  the  portrait-painter  on 
b this  account.  One  so  seldom  requires  of  people  what  is 
|:  impossible,  and  of  them  we  do  really  require  what  is  impos- 
sible : they  must  gather  up  into  their  picture  the  relation  of 
; , everybody  to  its  subject,  all  their  likings  and  all  dislikings  ; 
^ j they  must  not  only  paint  a ma'u  as  they  see  him,  but  as 
every  one  else  sees  him.  It  does  not  surprise  me  if  such 
I artists  become  by  degree  stunted,  indifferent,  and  of  but  one 
; idea ; and,  indeed,  it  would  not  matter  what  came  of  it,  if  it 
were  not  that  in  consequence  we  have  to  go  without  the  pic- 
■ tures  of  so  many  persons  near  and  dear  to  us.” 


“ It  is  too  true,  the  architect’s  collection  of  weapons  and 
old  implements,  which  were  found  with  the  bodies  of  their 
owners,  covered  iu  with  great  hills  of  earth  and  rock,  proves 
to  us  how  useless  is  man’s  so  great  anxiety  to  preserve  his 


228 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


personality  after  he  is  dead  ; and  so  inconsistent  people  are ! 
The  architect  confesses  to  have  himself  opened  these  harrows 
of  his  forefathers,  and  yet  goes  on  occupying  himself  with 
memorials  for  posterity.”  


“But  after  all  whj’-  should  we  take  it  so  much  to  heart? 
Is  all  that  we  do,  done  for  eternity?  Do  we  not  put  on  our 
dress  in  the  morning,  to  throw  it  off  again  at  night?  Do 
we  not  go  abroad  to  retui’ii  home  again  ? And  wh}’  should  we 
not  wish  to  rest  by  the  side  of  our  friends,  though  it  were 
but  for  a century  ? ’ ’ 


‘ ‘ When  we  see  the  many  gravestones  which  have  fallen 
in,  which  have  been  defaced  by  the  footsteps  of  the  congre- 
gation which  lie  buried  under  the  ruins  of  the  churches,  that 
have  themselves  crumbled  together  over  them,  we  may  fancy 
the  life  after  death  to  be  as  a second  life,  into  which  a man 
enters  in  the  figure,  or  the  picture,  or  the  inscription,  and 
lives  longer  there  than  when  he  was  reall}'  alive.  But  this 
figure  also,  this  second  existence,  dies  out  too,  sooner  or 
later.  Time  will  not  allow  himself  to  be  cheated  of  his 
rights  with  the  monuments  of  men  oi  with  themselves.” 


CHAPTEE  III. 

It  causes  us  so  agreeable  a sensation  to  occupy  om’selves 
with  what  we  can  only  half  do,  that  no  person  ouglrt  to  find 
fault  with  the  amateur  applying  himself  to  an  art  he  can 
never  learn,  nor  blame  an  artist  disposed  to  pass  beyond 
the  boundaries  of  his  art.  and  amuse  himself  in  some  other 
branch  of  art  akin  to  his  own.  With  such  complacency  of 
feeling  we  regard  the  preparation  of  the  architect  for  the 
painting  the  chapel.  Tlie  colors  were  got  ready,  the  meas- 
urements taken,  the  cartoons  designed.  He  had  made  no 
attempt  at  originality,  but  kept  close  to  his  outlines : his 
only  care  was  to  make  a proper  distribntion  of  the  sitting 
and  floating  figures,  so  as  tastefullj"  to  ornament  his  space 
with  them. 

The  scaffoldings  were  erected.  The  work  went  forwaixl ; 
and,  as  soon  as  any  thing  had  been  done  on  which  the  eye 


J:LECT I VE  AFEIXIT lEB. 


229 


could  rest,  he  could  have  no  objection  to  Charlotte  and  Ottilie 
coming  to  see  how  he  was  getting  on. 

The  life-like  faces  of  the  angels,  their  robes  waving  against 
the  blue  sky-ground,  delighted  the  eye ; while  their  still  and 
holy  air  calmed  and  composed  the  spirit,  and  produced  the 
most  delicate  effect. 

The  ladies  had  joined  him  on  the  scaffolding ; and  Ottilie 
had  scarcely  observed  how  easily  and  regularly  the  work  was 
being  done,  than  the  power  which  had  been  fostered  in  her 
by  her  early  education  at  once  appeared  to  develop.  She 
took  a brush,  and,  with  a few  words  of  direction,  painted  a 
richly  folding  robe  with  as  much  delicacy  as  skill. 

Charlotte,  who  was  alwa3’S  glad  when  Ottilie  would  occupy 
or  amuse  herself  with  any  thing,  left  them  both  in  the  chapel, 
and  went  to  follow  the  train  of  her  own  thoughts,  and  work 
her  waj^  for  herself  through  her  cares  and  anxieties  which 
she  was  unable  to  communicate  to  a creature. 

When  ordiuai'3"  men  allow  themseh'es  to  be  worked  up  by 
common,  eveiy-day  difficulties  into  fever-fits  of  passion,  we  can 
give  them  nothing  l)ut  a coni[)assionate  smile.  But  we  look 
with  a kind  of  awe  on  a spirit  in  which  the  seed  of  a great 
destiny  has  been  sown,  which  must  abide  the  unfolding  of  the 
germ,  and  neither  dare  nor  can  do  any  thing  to  preciiiitate 
either  the  good  or  the  ill,  either  the  happiness  or  the  misery, 
which  is  to  arise  out  of  it. 

Edward  had  sent  an  answer  bj' Charlotte’s  messenger,  who 
had  come  to  him  in  his  solitude.  It  was  written  with  kind- 
ness and  interest,  but  was  rather  composed  and  serious  than 
warm  and  affectionate.  He  had  vanished  almost  immediately 
after,  and  Charlotte  could  learn  no  news  about  him  ; till, 
at  last,  she  accidentallj'  found  his  name  in  the  newspaper, 
where  he  was  mentioned  with  honor  among  those  who  had 
most  distinguished  themselves  in  a late  important  engagement. 
She  now  understood  the  method  which  he  had  taken  ; she 
perceived  that  he  had  escaped  from  great  danger ; only  she 
was  convinced  at  the  same  time  that  he  would  seek  out 
greater ; and  it  was  all  too  clear  to  her,  that,  in  eveiy  sense, 
he  would  hardly  be  withheld  from  anj'  extremity. 

She  had  to  bear  about  this  perpetual  anxiety  in  her 
thoughts  ; and,  turn  which  waj'  she  would,  there  was  no  light 
in  which  she  could  look  at  it  that  would  give  her  comfort. 

Ottilie,  never  dreaming  of  anj"  thing  of  this,  had  taken  to 
the  work  in  the  chapel  with  the  greatest  interest ; and  she 
had  easily  obtained  Charlotte’s  permission  to  go  on  with  it 


230 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


regulfirly.  So  now  all  went  swiftly  forward,  and  the  azure 
heaven  was  soon  peopled  with  worthy  inhabitants.  By  con- 
tinual practice,  both  Ottilie  and  the  architect  had  gained  more 
freedom  with  the  last  ligures  : they  became  perceptibly  better. 
The  faces,  too,  which  had  been  all  left  to  the  architect  to 
paint,  showed  by  degrees  a very  singular  peculiarity.  They 
{ began  all  of  them  to  resemble  Ottilie.  The  contact  with  the 
^ beautiful  girl  had  made  so  strong  an  impression  on  the  soul 
of  the  young  man,  who  had  no  variety  of  faces  preconceived 
in  his  mind,  that  by  degrees,  on  the  way  from  the  eye  to  the 
hand,  nothing  was  lost,  and  both  worked  in  exact  harmony 
together.  Enough  ; one  of  the  last  faces  succeeded  perfectly, 
so  that  it  seemed  as  if  Ottilie  herself  was  looking  down  out 
of  the  spaces  of  the  sky. 

They  had  finished  the  vault.  The  walls  they  proposed  to 
leave  plain,  and  only  to  cover  them  over  with  a Inight  browu 
color.  The  delicate  pillars  and  the  (piaintly  moulded  orna- 
ments were  to  be  distinguished  from  them  by  a dark  shade. 
But,  as  in  such  things  one  thing  always  leads  on  to  another, 
they  determined  at  least  on  having  festoons  of  flowers  and 
fruit,  which  should,  as  it  were,  unite  together  heaven  and 
earth.  Here  Ottilie  was  in  her  clement.  The  gardens  pro- 
vided the  most  perfect  patterns  ; and,  although  the  wreaths 
were  as  lich  as  they  could  make  them,  it  was  all  finished 
sooner  than  they  had  supposed  possible. 

It  was  still  looking  rough  and  disorderly.  The  seafifolding- 
poles  had  been  run  together,  the  planks  thrown  one  on  the 
top  of  the  other,  the  uneven  pavement  was  yet  more  disfigured 
by  the  partj'-colored  stains  of  the  paint  which  had  been  spilt 
on  it. 

The  architect  begged  that  the  ladies  would  give  him  a week 
to  himself,  and  during  that  time  would  not  enter  the  chapel. 
One  flue  evening  he  came  to  them,  and  begged  them  both  to 
go  and  see  it.  He  did  not  wish  to  accompany  them,  he  said, 
and  at  onee  took  his  leave. 

“ Whatever  surprise  he  may  have  designed  for  us,”  said 
Charlotte,  as  soon  as  he  was  gone,  “I  cannot  myself  just 
now  go  down  there.  You  can  go  by  yourself,  and  tell  me 
all  about  it.  No  doubt  he  has  been  doing  something  which 
we  shall  like.  I will  enjoy  it  first  in  your  description,  and 
afterwards  it  will  be  the  more  charming  in  the  reality.” 

Ottilie,  who  knew'  well  that  in  many  cases  Charlotte  took 
care  to  avoid  every  thing  which  could  produce  emotion,  and 
particularly  disliked  to  be  surprised,  set  off  down  the  walk  by 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


231 


herself,  and  looked  round  Lm'oluutarily  for  the  architect,  ■who, 
however,  was  nownere  to  be  seen,  and  must  have  concealed 
himself  somewhere.  She  walked  into  the  church,  which  she 
found  open.  It  nad  been  finished  before,  cleaned,  and  con- 
secrated. She  went  on  to  the  chapel-door  ; its  heavy  mass, 
all  overlaid  with  iron,  yielded  easily  to  her  touch  ; and  she 
found  an  unexpected  sight  in  a familiar  spot. 

A solemn,  beautiful  light  streamed  in  through  the  one 
tall  window.  It  was  filled  with  stained  glass,  gracefully  put 
together.  The  entire  chapel  had  thus  received  a strange  tone, 
and  called  forth  a peculiar  frame  of  mind.  The  beauty  of 
the  vaulted  ceiling  and  the  walls  was  set  off  by  the  elegance 
of  the  pavement,  wliich  was  composed  of  peculiarly  shaped 
tiles,  fastened  together  with  gypsum,  and  forming  exquisite 
patterns  as  they  lay.  This,  and  the  .colored  glass  for  the 
windows,  the  arenitect  had  prepared  without  their  knowledge  ; 
and  a short  time  was  sufficient  to  have  it  put  iu  its  place. 

Seats  had  been  provided  as  well.  Among  the  relics  of 
the  old  church  some  finely  carved  chancel-chairs  had  been 
discovered,  wuich  now  were  standing  about  at  convenient 
places  along  the  walls. 

The  parts  which  she  knew  so  well,  now  meeting  her  as 
an  unfamiliar  whole,  delighted  Ottilie.  She  stood  still, 
walked  up  and  down,  looked  and  looked  again.  At  last  she 
seated  herself  in  one  of  the  chairs ; and  it  seemed,  as  she 
gazed  up  and  down,  as  if  she  was,  and  yet  was  not ; as  if 
she  felt,  and  did  not  feel ; as  if  all  this  would  vanish  from 
before  her,  and  she  would  vanish  from  herself ; and  it  was 
only  when  the  sun  left  the  window,  on  which  before  it  had 
been  shining  tull,  that  she  awoke  to  possession  of  herself, 
and  hastened  back  to  the  castle. 

She  did  not  hide  from  herself  the  strange  epoch  at  which 
this  surprise  bad  occurred  to  her.  It  was  the  evening  of 
Edward’s  l‘)irtljday.  Very  differently  she  had  hoped  to 
keep  it.  H*'-w  was  not  every  thing  to  be  dressed  out  for 
this  festival ! and  now  all  the  splendor  of  the  autumn 
flowers  remained  ungathered.  Those  sunflowers  were  still 
turned  to  the  sky  ; those  asters  still  looked  out  with  quiet, 
modest  eye  ; and  whatevei-of  them  all  had  been  wound  into 
wreaths  had  served  as  patterns  for  the  decorating  a spot 
which,  if  it  v.'as  not  to  remain  a mere  artist’s  fancy,  was 
onlj?  adapted  as  a general  mausoleum. 

And  then  she  had  to  remember  the  impetuous  eagerness 
with  which  Edward  had  kept  her  birthday  - feast.  >She 


232 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


thought  of  the  newly  erected  lodge,  under  the  roof  of 
which  they  had  promised  themselves  so  much  enjoj’ment. 
Tlie  fireworks  flashed  and  hissed  again  before  her  eyes  and 
ears  : the  more  lonely  she  vras,  the  more  keenly  her  imagi- 
nation brought  it  all  before  her.  But  she  felt  herself  only 
the  more  alone.  She  no  longer  leaned  upon  his  arm,  and  she 
had  no  hope  ever  any  more  to  rest  herself  upon  it. 

FROw  ottilie’s  diary. 

“I  have  been  struck  with  an  observation  of  the  young 
architect. 

“In  the  case  of  the  creative  artist,  as  in  that  of  the 
artisan,  it  is  clear  that  man  is  least  permitted  to  appro- 
priate to  himself  what  is  most  entirely  his  own.  His  works 
forsake  him  as  the  birds  forsake  the  nest  in  which  they  were 
hatched. 

“The  fate  of  the  architect  is  the  strangest  of  all  in  this 
way.  How  often  he  expends  his  whole  soul,  his  whole 
heart  and  passion,  to  produce  buildings  into  which  he  him- 
self may  never  enter.  The  halls  of  kings  owe  their  mag- 
nilicence  to  him,  but  he  has  no  enjoyment  of  them  m 
their  splendor.  In  the  temple  he  draws  a paitition-lme 
between  himself  and  the  Holy  of  holies : he  may  never 
more  set  his  foot  upon  the  steps  which  he  has  laid  down 
for  the  heart-thrilling  ceremonial,  as  the  goldsmith  may 
only  adore  fiom  far  off  the  monstrance  whose  enamel  and 
whose  jewels  he  has  himself  set  together.  The  builder  sur- 
renders to  the  rich  man,  with  the  key  of  his  palace,  all 
pleasure  and  all  right  there,  and  never  shares  with  him  in 
the  enjoyment  of  it.  And  must  not  ail  in  this  way.  step 
by  step,  draw  off  from  the  artist,  when  the  work,  like  a 
child  who  is  provided  for,  has  no  more  to  fall  back  upon 
its  father  ? And  what  a power  there  must  be  in  art  itself, 
for  its  own  self-advancing,  when  it  has  been  obliged  to  shape 
itself  almost  solely  out  of  what  was  open  to  all,  only  out 
of  what  was  the  property  of  every  one,  and  therefore  also  of 
the  artist ! ” 


“ There  is  a conception  among  ancient  nations,  which  is 
awful,  and  may  almost  seem  terrible.  Thej"  pictured  their 
forefathers  to  themseh-es  sitting  round  on  thrones,  in  enor- 
mous caverns,  in  silent  converse  ; when  a new  - comer  en- 
tered, if  he  were  worthy  enough,  they  rose  up,  and  inclined 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


233 


their  heads  to  welcome  him.  Yesterday,  as  I was  sitting  in 
the  chapel,  and  other  carved  chairs  stood  round  like  that  in 
which  I was,  the  thought  of  this  came  over  me,  with  a soft, 
pleasant  feeling.  Why  cannot  you  stay  sitting  liere?  I 
said  to  myself ; stay  here  sitting,  meditating  with  yourself 
long,  long,  long,  till  at  last  your  friends  come,  and  you  rise 
up  to  them,  and  with  a gentle  inclination  direct  them  to 
their  places.  The  colored  window-panes  convert  the  day 
into  a solemn  twilight ; and  some  one  should  set  up  for  ns 
an  ever-burning  lamp,  that  the  night  might  not  be  utter 
darkness.” 


“We  may  imagine  ourselves  in  what  situation  we  please,T 
we  always  conceive  ourselves  as  seeing.  I believe  man/ 
dreams  only  so  that  he  may  never  cease  to  see.  Some  day,< 
perhaps,  the  inner  light  will  come  out  from  within  us  ; and  we 
shall  not  any  more  require  another. 

“ The  year  dies  away  : the  wind  sweeps  over  the  stubble, 
and  there  is  nothing  left  to  stir  under  its  touch.  But  the 
red  berries  on  yonder  tall  tree  seem  as  if  they  would  still 
remind  us  of  brighter  things,  and  the  stroke  of  the  thrasher’s 
flail  awakes  the  thought  how  much  of  nourishment  and  life 
lies  buried  in  the  mowed  ear.” 


CHAPTER  IV. 

How  strangely,  after  all  this,  with  the  sense  so  vividly 
impi'essed  on  her  of  mutability  and  perishableness,  must 
Ottilie  have  been  affected  b}^  the  news  which  could  not  any 
longer  be  kept  concealed  from  her,  that  Edward  had  ex- 
posed himself  to  the  uncertain  chances  of  war ! Unhap- 
pily, none  of  the  observations  which  she  had  occasion  to 
make  upon  it  escaped  her.  But  it  is  well  for  us  that  man 
can  only  endure  a certain  degree  of  unhappiness  : what  is 
beyond  that  either  annihilates  him,  or  passes  by  him,  and 
leaves  him  apathetic.  There  arc  situations  in  which  hope 
and  fear  run  together,  in  which  they  mutually  destroy  one 
another,  and  lose  themselves  in  a clull  indifference.  If  it 
were  not  so,  how  could  we  bear  to  know  of  those  who  are 
most  dear  to  us  being  in  hourly  peril,  and  yet  go  on  as  usual 
with  our  ordinary  every-day  life  ? 


.234 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


It  was,  therefore,  as  if  some  good  genius  was  caring  for 
Ottilie,  that,  all  at  once,  this  stillness,  in  which  she  seemeo 
to  be  sinking  from  loneliness  and  want  of  occupation,  was 
suddenly  invaded  by  a wild  army,  which,  while  it  gave  her 
externally  abundance  of  employment,  and  so  took  her  out 
of  herself,  at  the  same  time  awoke  in  her  the  consciousness 
of  her  own  power. 

Charlotte’s  daughter,  Luciana.  had  scarcely  left  the  school  ' 
and  gone  out  into  the  great  world  ; scarcely  had  she  found 
herself  at  her  aunt’s  house  in  the  midst  of  a large  society, — 
than  her  anxiety  to  please  produced  its  effect  in  really 
pleasing:  and  a young,  very  wealthy,  man,  soon  experi- 
enced a passionate  desire  to  make  her  his  own.  His  large 
property  gave  him  a right  to  ha\  e the  best  of  every  thing 
for  his  use;  and  nothing  seemed  to  be  wanting  to  him  ex- 
cept a perfect  wife,  for  wdiom,  as  for  the  rest  of  his  good 
fortune,  he  should  be  the  envy  of  the  world. 

This  incident  in  her  family  had  been  for  some  time  occu- 
pying Charlotte.  It  had  engaged  all  her  attention,  and 
taken  up  her  whole  correspondence,  except  so  far  as  this 
was  directed  to  the  olrtaining  news  of  Edward : so  that 
latterly  Ottilie  had  been  left  more  than  was  usual  to  herself. 

She  knew,  indeed,  of  an  intended  visit  from  Luciana.  She 
had  been  making  various  changes  and  arrangements  in  the 
house  in  preparation  for  it,  but  she  had  no  notion  that  it  was 
so  near.  Letters,  she  supposed,  would  lirst  have  to  pass, 
settling  the  time,  and  making  arrangements  : when  the  storm 
broke  suddenly  over  the  castle  and  over  herself. 

Up  drove,  first,  ladj^’s  maids  and  men-servants,  their  car- 
riage loaded  witli  trunks  and  boxes.  The  household  was 
already  swelled  to  double  or  to  treble  its  size,  and  then 
appeared  the  visitors  themselves.  There  was  the  great-aunt, 
with  Luciana  and  some  of  her  friends,  and  then  the  bride- 
groom with  some  of  his  friends.  The  entrance-hall  was  full 
of  things, — bags,  portmanteaus,  and  leather  articles  of  every 
sort.  The  boxes  had  to  be  got  out  of  their  covers,  and  that 
was  infinite  trouble  ; and  of  luggage  and  of  rummage  there 
was  no  end.  At  intervals,  moreover,  there  were  violeni 
showers,  giving  rise  to  much  inconvenience.  Ottilie  en- 
countered all  this  confusion  with  the  easiest  equanimity, 
and  her  happy  talent  showed  in  its  fairest  light.  In  a very 
little  time  she  had  brought  things  to  order,  and  disposed  of 
them.  Every  one  found  his  room  ; every  one  had  his  things 
exactly  as  they  wished  ; and  all  thought  themselves  well 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


235 


attended  to,  because  they  were  not  prevented  from  attending 
on  themselves. 

The  journey  had  been  long  and  fatiguing,  and  thej'  would 
all  have  been  glad  of  a little  rest  after  it.  The  bridegroom 
would  have  liked  to  pay  his  respects  to  his  mother-in-law, 
express  his  pleasure,  his  gratitude,  and  so  on.  But  Luciaua 
could  not  rest.  She  had  now  arrived  at  the  happiness  of 
being  able  to  mount  a horse.  The  bridegroom  had  beautiful 
horses,  and  mount  they  must  on  the  spot.  Clouds  and  wind, 
rain  and  storm,  they  were  nothing  to  Luciaua  ; and  now  it 
was  as  if  the}"  only  lived  to  get  wet  through,  and  to  dry 
themselves  again.  If  she  took  a fancy  to  go  out  walking, 
she  never  thought  what  sort  of  dress  she  had  on,  or  what  her 
shoes  were  like  ; she  must  go  and  see  the  grounds  of  whieh 
she  had  heard  so  much  : what  could  not  be  done  on  hoi'se- 
back,  she  ran  through  on  foot.  In  a little  while  she  had 
seen  every  thing,  and  given  her  opinion  about  every  thing, 
and  with  such  rapidity  of  character  it  was  not  easy  to  con- 
tradict or  oppose  her.  The  whole  household  had  much 
to  suffer,  but  most  particularly  the  lady’s  maids,  who  were 
at  work  from  morning  to  night,  washing  and  ironing  and 
stitching. 

As  soon  as  she  had  exhausted  the  house  and  the  park,  she 
thought  it  w'as  her  duty  to  pay  visits  all  round  the  neighbor- 
hood. As  they  rode  and  drove  very  fast,  the  visits  extended 
to  a considerable  distance.  The  castle  was  overrun  with 
people  returning  visits  ; and,  that  they  might  not  miss  one 
another,  certain  days  were  set  apart  for  being  at  home. 

Charlotte,  in  the  mean  time,  with  her  aunt,  and  the  man 
of  business  of  the  bridegroom,  were  occupied  in  determining 
about  the  settlements ; and  it  was  left  to  Ottihe,  with  those 
under  her,  to  take  care  that  all  this  crowd  of  people  were 
properly  provided  for.  Game-keepers  and  gardeners,  lishcr- 
meu  and  shop-dealers,  were  set  in  motion  ; Luciaua  always 
showing  herself  like  the  blazing  nucleus  of  a comet  witli  its 
long  tail  trailing  behind  it.  The  ordinary  amusements  of 
the  parties  soon  became  too  ins’pid  for  her  taste.  Hardly 
would  she  leave  the  old  people  in  [loace  at  the  card-table. 
Whoever  could  by  any  means  be  set  moving  (and  who  could 
resist  the  charm  of  being  pressed  by  her  into  service  ?)  must 
up,  if  not  to  dance,  then  to  plny  at  forfeits,  or  some  other 
game,  where  they  were  to.  be  victimized  and  tormented. 
Notwithstanding  all  that,  hpwevev,  and  although  afterwards 
the  redeeming  of  the  forfeits  had  to  be  settled  with  herself, 


236 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


yet  of  those  who  played  with  her,  never  any  one,  especially 
never  any  man,  let  him  be  of  what  sort  he  Avonkl,  went  quite 
empty-handed  away.  Indeed,  some  old  people  of  rank  who 
were  there,  she  succeeded  in  completely  winning  over  to 
herself,  by  having  contrived  to  find  out  their  birthdays  or 
christening-days,  and  marking  them  with  some  particular 
celebration.  In  all  this  she  showed  a skill  not  a little  j 
remarkable.  Every  one  saw  himself  favored,  and  each  con-  : 
sidered  himself  to  be  the  one  most  favored,  — a weakness  of 
which  the  oldest  person  of  the  party  was  the  most  notably 
guilty.  I 

It  seemed  to  be  a sort  of  pride  with  her.  that  men  who  had  i 

any  thing  remarkable  about  them.  — rank,  character,  or  fame,  I 

— she  must  and  would  gain  for  herself.  Gravity  and  serious-  ! 

ness  she  made  give  way  to  her  ; and,  wild,  strange  creature  i 

as  she  was,  she  found  f.avor  even  with  discretion  itself.  Not  ' 

that  the  young  were  at  all  cut  short  in  consetpience.  Every-  ^ 

body  had  his  share,  his  day,  his  hour,  in  which  she  contrived  i 

to  charm  and  to  enchain  him.  It  was,  therefore,  natural 
enough  that  before  long  she  should  have  had  the  architect  in  ! 
her  eye,  looking  out  so  unconsciously  as  he  did  from  under 
his  long  black  hair,  and  standing  so  calm  and  quiet'  in  the 
background.  To  all  her  questions  she  received  short,  sensi- 
ble answers ; but  he  did  not  seem  inclined  to  allow  himself 
to  be  c.arried  away  farther:  and  at  last,  half-provoked,  half 
in  malice,  she  resolved  that  she  would  make  him  the  hero  of 
a day,  and  so  gam  him  for  her  court. 

It  was  not  for  nothing  that  she  had  brought  that  quantity 
of  luggage  with  her.  Much,  indeed,  had  followed  her  after- 
wards. vShe  had  provided  herself  with  an  endless  variety  of 
dresses.  'When  it  took  her  fancy,  she  would  change  her  dress 
three  or  four  times  a day,  usually  wearing  something  of  an 
ordinary  kind,  but  making  her  aiipearaiice  suddenly  at  inter- 
vals in  a thorough  masquerade-dress,  as  a peasant-girl  or  a 
fish-inaiden,  as  a fairy  or  a tlower-girl ; and  this  would  go  on 
from  morning  till  night.  Sometimes  she  would  even  disguise 
herself  as  an  old  woman,  that  her  young  face  might  jxiep 
out  the  fresher  from  under  the  cap ; and  so  utterly  in  this 
waj'  did  she  confuse  and  mix  together  the  actual  and  the 
fantastic,  that  people  thought  they  were  living  with  a sort  of 
drawing-room  witch. 

But  the  principal  use  which  she  had  for  these  disguises 
were  pantomimic  tableaux  and  dances,  in  which  she  was 
skilful  in  ex[)ressing  a variety  of  character.  A cavalier 


electivp:  affinities. 


237 


in  her  suite  had  arranged  to  play  on  the  piano,  by  way 
of  accompaniment  to  her  gestures,  what  little  music  was 
required : thej'  needed  only  to  exchange  a few  words,  and 
they  at  once  understood  one  another. 

One  day,  in  a [)ause  of  a brilliant  ball,  they  were  called 
upon  suddenly  to  extem[)orize  (it  was  on  a pri'S'ate  hint  from 
themselves)  one  of  these  exhibitions.  Lnciana  seemed  em- 
barrassed, taken  bj’  surprise,  and,  contrary  to  her  custom,  let 
herself  be  asked  more  than  once.  She  could  not  decide  upon 
her  character,  desired  the  party  to  clioose,  and  asked,  like 
an  improvvisutore,  for  a subject.  At  last  her  musical  assist- 
ant, with  whom  all  had  been  previously  arranged,  sat  down 
at  the  instrument,  and  began  to  play  a mourning-march, 
calling  on  her  to  give  them  the  “Artemisia”  which  she  had 
been  stnelyiug  so  admirably.  She  consented,  and,  after  a 
short  absence,  re-appeared,  to  the  sad,  tender  music  of  the 
dead  march,  in  the  form  of  the  royal  widow,  with  measured 
step,  carrying  an  urn  of  ashes  before  her.  A large  black 
tablet  was  borne  in  after  her,  and  a carefully  cut  piece  of 
chalk  in  a gold  pencil-case. 

One  of  her  admirers  and  helpers,  into  whose  ear  she  whis- 
pered something,  went  directly  to  call  the  architect,  to  desire 
him,  and,  if  he  would  not  come,  to  drag  him  up,  as  master- 
builder,  to  draw  the  grave  for  the  mausoleum,  and  to  tell  him 
at  the  same  time  that  he  was  not  to  pla}^  tlie  statist,  but 
enter  earnestly  into  his  part  as  one  of  the  perfonners. 

Embarrassed  as  the  architect  outwardly  appeared  (for  in 
his  black,  close-fitting,  modern  civilian’s  dross,  he  formed  a 
wonderful  contrast  with  the  gauze,  crape,  fringes,  tinsel,  tas- 
sels, and  crown),  he  very  soon  composed  himself  internally; 
and  the  scene  became  all  the  more  strange.  "With  the 
greatest  gravity  he  placed  himself  in  front  of  the  tablet,  which 
was  supported  by  a couple  of  pages,  and  drew  carefully  an 
elaborate  tomb,  which,  indeed,  would  have  suited  better  a 
Lombard  than  a Carian  prince  ; but  it  was  in  such  beautiful 
proportions,  so  solemn  in  its  parts,  so  full  of  genius  in  its 
decoration,  that  the  spectators  watched  it  growing  with 
delight,  and  wondered  at  it  when  it  was  finished. 

All  this  time  he  had  not  once  turned  towards  the  queen, 
but  had  given  his  whole  attention  to  what  he  was  doing. 
At  last,  when,  bowing  to  her,  he  signified  tliat  he  thought,  he 
had  fulfilled  her  commands,  she  reached  out  the  urn  to  him, 
expressing  her  desire  to  see  it  represented  on  the  top  of  the 
monument.  He  complied,  although  unwillingly  ; as  it  would 


238 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


not  suit  the  character  of  the  rest  of  his  design.  Luciana 
was  now  at  last  freed  from  her  impatience.  Her  intention 
had  been  by  no  means  to  get  a scientific  drawing  out  of  him. 

If  he  had  only  made  a few  strokes,  sketched  something 
which  should  have  looked  like  a mounment,  and  devoted  the 
rest  of  his  time  to  her,  it  wmnld  have  Ijoeii  far  more  what 
she  had  wished,  and  would  have  pleased  her  a great  deal 
better.  His  manner  of  proceeding  had  thrown  her  into  the 
greatest  embarrassment.  For  although  in  her  sorrow,  in  her 
directions,  in  her  gestures,  in  her  approbation  of  the  work 
as  it  slowly  rose  before  her,  she  had  tried  to  manage  some 
sort  of  change  of  expression,  and  although  she  had  hung  , 
about  close  to  him,  only  to  place  herself  into  some  sort  of  j 
relation  to  him,  yet  he  had  kept  himself  throughout  too  stiff ; ' 

so  that  too  often  she  had  been  driven  to  take  refuge  with  her  1 
urn  : she  had  to  press  it  to  her  heart  and  look  up  to  heaven  ; . 

and  at  last,  a situation  of  that  kind  having  a necessaiy  ten- 
dency to  intensify,  she  made  herself  more  like  a widow  of  | 
I^phesus  than  a Queen  of  Caria.  Thus  the  representation 
lasted  a long  time.  The  musician,  who  had  usually  patience  | 
enough,  did  not  know  any  more  what  strain  to  strike  up. 

He  thanked  God  when  he  saw  the  urn  stand  on  the  pyramid,  I 
and  involuntarily  his  tune,  as  the  queen  was  going  to  express 
her  gratitude,  changed  to  a merry  air,  by  which  the  whole 
thing  lost  its  character.  The  company,  however,  was  quite 
cheered  up  by  it,  and  forthwith  separated  ; some  going  up  to 
expi'ess  their  delight  and  admiration  of  the  lad}^  for  her 
excellent  performance,  and  some  praising  the  architect  for 
his  most  artist-like  and  beautiful  drawing. 

The  bridegroom  especially  paid  marked  attention  to  the 
architect.  “ I am  vexed,”  he  said,  “ that  the  drawing  should 
be  so  perishable : yon  will  permit  me,  however,  to  have  it 
taken  to  my  room,  where  I should  much  like  to  talk  to  you 
about  it.  ’ ’ 

“If  it  would  give  you  au}’^  pleasure,”  said  the  architect, 

“ I can  lay  before  you  a number  of  highly  finished  designs 
for  buildings  and  moniimeiits  of  this  kind,  of  which  this  is 
but  a mere  hasty  sketch.” 

Ottilie  was  standing  at  no  great  distance,  aud  went  up  to 
them.  “ Do  not  forget,”  she  said  to  the  architect,  “ to  take 
an  opportunity  of  letting  the  baron  see  your  collection.  He 
is  a frieud  of  art  aud  of  antiquity.  I should  like  you  to  be- 
come better  acquainted.” 

Luciaua  was  passing  at  the  momeut.  “ Vliat  are  they 
speaking  of?”  she  asked. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


239 


“ Of  a collection  of  works  of  art,”  repliocl  the  baron, 
“ which  this  gentleman  possesses,  and  which  he  is  good 
enough  to  say  that  he  will  show  us.” 

“Oh,  let  him  bring  them  immediately!  ” cried  Luciana : 
“you  will  bring  them,  will  you  not?”  she  added,  in  a soft 
and  sweet  tone,  taking  both  his  hands  in  hers.  * 

“The  present  is  scarcely  a fitting  time,”  the  architect 
answered. 

“ What ! ” Luciana  cried,  in  a tone  of  authoritj' ; “you  will 
not  obey  the  command  of  your  queen  ? ” and  then  she  begged 
him  again  with  some  piece  of  absurdity. 

“ Do  not  be  obstinate,”  said  Ottilie,  in  a scarcely  audible 
voice. 

The  architect  left  them  with  a bow,  signifying  neither  assent 
nor  refusal. 

He  was  hardly  gone,  when  Luciana  was  fl3uug  up  and  down 
the  saloon  with  a grejdiouud.  “Alas!”  she  exclaimed,  as 
she  ran  accidentally  against  her  mother,  “ am  I not  an  unfor- 
tunate creature?  I have  not  brought  mj^  monkej'  with  me. 
The}'  told  me  I had  better  not,  but  1 am  sure  it  was  nothing 
but  the  laziness  of  my  people  ; and  it  is  such  a delight  to  me. 
But  I will  have  it  brought  after  me  : somebody  shall  go  and 
fetch  it.  If  I could  only  see  a picture  of  the  dear  creature, 
it  would  be  a comfort  to  me  : I certaiul}^  will  have  his  picture 
taken,  and  it  shall  never  be  out  of  mj'  sight.” 

“ Perhaps  I can  comfort  you,”  replied  Charlotte.  “ There 
is  a whole  volume  full  of  the  most  wonderful  ape-faces  in 
the  libraiy,  which  jmu  can  have  fetched  if  j’ou  like.” 

Luciana  shrieked  for  joju  The  great  folio  was  produced 
instantly.  The  sight  of  these  hideous  creatures,  so  like  to 
men,  and  with  the  resemblance  even  more  caricatured  b}’  the 
artist,  gave  Luciana  the  greatest  delight.  It  was  her  especial 
delight  to  find  some  one  of  her  acquaintance  whom  the  ani- 
mals resembled.  “ Is  that  not  like  my  uncle  ! ” she  remorse- 
lessly exclaimed;  “and  here,  look,  here  is  m3'  milliner 

M ; and  here  is  Parson  S ; and  here  the  image  of 

that  creature  — bodil3' ! After  all,  these  monkeys  are  the 
real  incroyables;  and  it  is  inconceivable  why  they  are  not 
admitted  into  the  best  society.” 

It  was  in  the  best  society  that  she  said  this,  and  yet  no  one 
took  it  ill  of  her.  People  had  become  accustomed  to  allow 
her  so  many  liberties  in  her  prettinesses,  that  at  last  they 
came  to  allow  them  in  what  w'as  unpretty. 

During  this  time,  Ottilie  was  talking  to  the  bridegroom  : she 


240 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


was  looking  anxiously  for  the  return  of  the  architect,  whose 
serious  and  tasteful  collection  w'as  to  deliver  the  party  from 
the  apes  ; and,  in  the  expectation  of  it,  she  had  made  it  the 
subject  of  her  conversation  with  the  baron,  and  directed  his 
attention  on  various  things  which  he  was  to  see.  But  the 
architect  staid  away  ; and  when  at  last  he  made  his  appear- 
ance, he  lost  himself  in  the  crowd,  without  having  brought 
any  thing  with  him,  and  without  seeming  as  if  he  had  been 
asked  for  any  thing. 

For  a moment  Ottilie  became  — what  shall  we  call  it  ? — 
annoyed,  put  out,  perplexed.  She  had  been  saying  so  much 
about  him  — she  had  promised  the  bridegroom  an  hour  of 
enjoyment  after  his  own  heart ; and,  with  all  the  depth  of  his 
love  for  Luciana,  he  was  evidently  suffering  from  her  present 
behavior. 

The  monkeys  had  to  give  place  to  a collation.  Bound 
games  followed,  and  then  more  dancing ; at  last,  a general 
uneasy  vacancy,  with  fruitless  attempts  at  resuscitating  c.x- 
hausted  amusements,  which  lasted  this  time,  as  indeed  they 
usually  did,  long  past  midnight.  It  had  already  become  a 
habit  with  Luciana  to  be  never  able  to  get  out  of  bed  in  the 
morning  or  into  it  at  night. 

About  this  time,  the  incidents  noticed  in  Ottilie’s  diary 
become  more  rare  ; while  we  find  a larger  number  of  maxims 
and  sentences  drawn  from  life  and  relating  to  life.  It  is  not 
conceivable  that  the  larger  proportion  of  these  could  have 
arisen  from  her  own  reflection  ; and  most  likel}’  some  one  had 
shown  her  varieties  of  them,  and  she  had  written  out  what 
took  her  fancy.  Manju  however,  with  an  internal  bearing, 
can  be  easily  recognized  by  the  red  thread. 

FROM  ottilie’s  DIARY. 

“We  like  to  look  into  the  future,  because  we  feel  as  if  we 
could  guide  by  our  silent  wishes  in  our  own  favor  the  chances 
hovering  in  it.’’  

“We  seldom  find  ourselves  in  a large  party  without  think- 
ing, the  accident  which  brings  so  many  here  together, 
should  bring  our  friends  to  us  as  well.” 


“ Let  us  live  in  as  small  a circle  as  we  will,  we  are  either 
debtors  or  creditors  before  we  have  had  time  to  look  round.” 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


241 


“If  we  meet  a person  who  is  under  an  obligation  to  us,  we 
remember  it  immediately.  But  how  often  may  we  meet  people 
to  whom  we  are  ourselves  under  obligation,  without  its  even 
occurring  to  us  ! ” 


“It  is  nature  to  communicate  one’s  self:  it  is  culture  to 
receive  what  is  communicated  as  it  is  given.” 


“No  one  would  talk  much  in  society,  if  he  only  knew  how 
often  he  misunderstands  others. 


“ One  alters  so  much  what  one  has  heard  from  others  in 
repeating  it,  only  because  one  has  not  understood  it.” 

“ Whoever  indulges  long  in  monologue  in  the  presence  of 
others,  without  flattering  his  listeners,  provokes  ill-will.” 


“Every  word  a man  utters  provokes  the  opposite  opinion.” 


“Argument  and  flattery  are  but  poor  elements  out  of  which 
to  form  a conversation.” 


“ The  most  pleasant  kind  of  society  is  that  in  which  those 
composing  it  have  an  easy  and  natural  respect  for  one  an- 
other. ’ ’ 


“There  is  nothing  wherein  people  betray  their  character 
more  than  in  what  they  find  to  laugh  at.” 


“The  ridiculous  arises  out  of  a moral  contrast,  in  which 
two  things  are  brought  together  before  the  mind  in  an 
innocent  way.” 


“ The  material  man  often  laughs  where  there  is  nothing 
to  laugh  at.  Whatever  moves  him,  his  inner  nature  comes  to 
the  surface.” 


“The  man  of  understanding  finds  almost  every  thing  ri- 
diculous ; the  man  of  higher  insight  scarcely  any  thing.  ’ ’ 


“Some  one  found  fault  with  an  elderly  man  for  continuing 
to  pay  attention  to  young  ladies.  ‘ It  is  the  only  means,’  he 
replied,  ‘ of  keeping  one’s  self  young ; and  everybody  likes 
to  do  that.’  ” 


242 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


“ People  will  allow  their  faults  to  be  shown  them ; they 
will  let  themselves  be  punished  for  them  ; thej'  will  patiently 
endure  many  things  because  of  them ; they  only  become 
impatient  when  they  have  to  lay  them  aside.” 

f 

“Certain  defects  are  necessary  for  the  existence  of  indi- 
viduality. We  should  not  be  pleased  if  old  friends  were  to  . 
lay  aside  certain  peculiarities.” 


“There  is  a saying,  ‘ He  will  die  soon,’  when  a man  acts 
unlike  himself.” 


“ Wliat  kind  of  defects  may  we  bear  with  and  even  cul- 
tivate in  ourselves?  Such  as  rather  give  pleasure  to  others 
thau  injure  them.”  


“The  passions  are  defects  or  excellencies  only  in  excess.” 


“Our  passions  are  true  phoenixes:  as  the  old  burn  outf 
the  new  straight  rise  up  out  of  the  ashes.” 

“ Violent  passions  are  incurable  diseases : the  means 
wdiich  will  cure  them  are  what  first  make  them  thoroughly 
dangerous.”  

“ Passion  is  both  raised  and  softened  b}’  confession.  In 
nothing,  perhaps,  were  the  middle  way  more  desirable,  thau  in 
knowing  what  to  say  and  what  not  to  say  to  those  we  love.” 


CHAPTER  V. 

So  swept  on  Luciana  in  the  social  whirlpool,  driving  the 
rush  of  life  along  before  her.  Her  court  multiplied  daily, 
partly  because  her  impetuosity  roused  and  attracted  so  many, 
partly  because  she  knew  how  to  attach  the  rest  to  her  by 
kindness  and  attention.  Generous  she  was  in  the  highest 
degree : her  aunt’s  affection  for  her,  and  her  bridegroom’s  | 
love,  had  heaped  her  with  beautiful  and  costly  presents  : but  1 
she  seemed  as  if  nothing  which  she  had  was  her  own,  and  as 
if  she  did  not  know  the  value  of  the  things  which  had 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


243 


streamed  in  upon  her.  One  day  she  saw  a young  lady  look- 
ing rather  poorly  dressed  by  the  side  of  the  rest  of  the  part}' ; 
and  she  did  not  hesitate  a moment  to  take  off  a rich  shawl 
which  she  was  wearing,  and  hang  it  over  her,  — doing  it,  at 
the  same  time,  in  such  a humorous,  graceful  wa}',  that  no  one 
could  refuse  sucli  a present  so  given.  One  of  her  courtiers 
always  carried  about  a purse,  with  orders  to  inquire,  in  what- 
ever place  they  passed  through,  for  the  most  aged  and  most 
helpless  persons,  and  give  them  relief,  at  least  for  the  mo- 
ment. In  this  way  she  gained  for  herself  all  round  the 
country  a reputation  for  charitableness,  which  grew,  at  times, 
somewhat  inconvenient,  through  being  molested  by  far  too 
many  persons  needing  help. 

Nothing,  however,  so  much  added  to  her  popularity  as 
her  steady  and  consistent  kindness  towards  an  unhappy 
young  man,  who  shrank  from  societ}'  because,  while  other- 
wise handsome  and  well  formed,  he  had  lost  his  right  hand, 
although  with  high  honor,  in  action.  This  mutilation 
weighed  so  heavily  upon  his  spirits,  it  was  so  annoying  to 
him  that  every  new  acquaintance  he  made  had  to  be  told  the 
story  of  his  misfortune,  that  he  chose  rather  to  shut  himself 
up  altogether,  devoting  himself  to  reading  and  other  studious 
pursuits,  and  would  have  no  dealings  whatever  with  society. 

I She  heard  of  the  state  of  this  young  man.  At  once  she  con- 
i trived  to  prevail  iq)ou  him  to  come  to  her,  first  to  small  parties, 

' then  to  greater,  and  then  out  into  the  world  with  her.  She 
i .showed  more  attention  to  him  than  to  any  other  person : 
! particularly  she  endeavored  i by  the  services  which  she 
pressed  upon  him,  to  make  him  sensible  of  what  he  had  lost 
^ in  laboring  herself  to  supply  it.  At  dinner,  she  would  make 
* him  sit  next  to  her : she  cut  up  his  food  for  him,  that  he 
might  only  have  to  use  his  fork.  If  people  older  or  of  higher 
^ rank  prevented  her  from  being  close  to  him,  she  would  ex- 
” tend  her  attention  to  him  across  the  entire  table  ; and  the 
■;  servants  were  hurried  off  to  supply  to  him  what  distance 
; threatened  to  deprive  him  of.  At  last  she  encouraged  him 
; to  write  with  his  left  hand.  All  his  attempts  he  was  to 
! address  to  her ; and  thus,  whether  far  or  near,  she  always 
j kept  herself  in  correspondence  with  him.  The  young  man 
” did  not  know  what  had  happened  to  him,  and  from  that 
i moment  a new  life  opened  out  before  him. 

One  may  perhaps  suppose  that  such  behavior  must  have 
j caused  some  uneasiness  to  her  bridegroom.  But,  in  fact,  it 
I was  quite  the  reverse.  He  admired  her  exceedingly  for  her 

i 


244 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


exertions,  and  liad  the  more  reason  for  feeling  entirely  sat-  , 
isfled  about  her,  as  she  had  certain  features  iu  her  character 
almost  iu  excess,  which  kept  any  thing  in  the  slightest  degree 
dangerous  utterly  at  a distance.  She  would  ruu  about  with 
anybody,  just  as  she  fancied:  no  one  was  free  from  danger 
of  a push  or  a pull,  or  of  being  made  the  object  of  some 
sort  of  freak  ; but  no  person  ever  ventured  to  do  the  same  to 
her,  — no  person  dared  to  touch  her,  or  return,  in  the  remot-  i 
est  degree,  any  lil)erty  which  she  had  taken  herself.  She  | 
kept  every  one  within  the  strictest  bounds  of  propriety  in  , 
their  behavior  to  herself ; while  she,  iu  her  own  behavior, 
was  every  moment  overleaping  them. 

On  the  whole,  one  might  have  supposed  it  to  be  a maxim 
w'ith  her  to  expose  herself  indifferently  to  praise  or  blame, 
to  regard  or  to  dislike.  If  in  various  ways  she  took  pains 
to  win  people’s  favor,  she  commonly  herself  spoiled  all  the 
good  she  had  done,  b}^  an  ill  tongue  which  spared  no  one. 
Not  a visit  was  ever  paid  iu  the  neighborhood,  not  a single 
piece  of  hospitality  was  ever  shown  to  herself  and  her  party 
among  the  surrounding  castles  or  mansions,  but  what  on 
her  return  her  excessive  recklessness  let  it  appear  that  all 
men  and  all  human  things  she  was  only  inclined  to  see  on  the 
ridiculous  side. 

There  were  three  brothers,  who,  purely  out  of  compliment 
to  each  other  which  should  marry  first,  had  been  overtaken 
by  old  age  before  the}"  had  got  the  question  settled  : here  was 
a little,  young  wife  with  a great,  old  husband ; there,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  a dapper  little  m.aii  and  an  unwieldy  giantess. 

In  one  house,  every  stci>  one  took  one  stumbled  over  a child  ; 
another,  however  many  peoi)le  were  crammed  into  it,  never 
would  seem  full,  because  there  were  no  children  there  at  all. 
Old  coui)les  (supposing  the  estate  was  not  entailed)  should 
get  themselves  buried  as  quickly  as  possible,  that  such  a 
thing  as  a laugh  might  be  heard  again  iu  the  house.  Young 
married  people  should  travel : housekeepiug  did  not  sit  well 
upon  them.  And  as  she  treated  the  persons,  so  she  treated 
what  belonged  to  them,  — their  houses,  their  furniture,  their 
dinner-services,  — every  thing.  The  ornaments  of  the  walls  of 
the  rooms  most  particularly  provoked  her  funny  remarks. 
From  the  oldest  tapestry  to  the  most  modern  printed  paper ; 
from  the  noblest  family  pictures  to  the  most  frivolous  new 
copperplate,  — ^one  as  well  as  the  other  had  to  suffer,  one  as 
well  as  the  other  had  to  be  pulled  iu  pieces  by  her  satirical 
tongue  : so  that,  indeed,  one  had  to  wonder  how,  for  twenty 
miles  round,  any  thing  continued  to  exist. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


245 


It  was  not,  perhaps,  exactly  malice  which  produced  all 
this  destructiveness  ; it  was  wilfulness  and  selfishness  that 
ordinarily  set  her  off  upon  it : but  a genuine  bitterness  grew 
up  m her  feelings  towards  Ottilie. 

She  looked  down  with  disdain  on  the  calm,  uninterrupted 
activity'  of  the  sweet  girl,  which  every  one  had  observed  and 
admired  ; and,  when  something  was  said  of  the  care  which 
Ottilie  took  of  the  garden  and  of  the  hot-houses,  she  not  only 
spoke  scornfully  of  it,  in  affecting  to  be  surprised,  if  it  were 
so,  at  there  being  neither  flowers  nor  fruit  to  be  seen,  not 
caring  to  consider  that  the}’  were  living  in  the  depth  of  winter, 
but  every  faintest  scrap  of  green,  every  leaf,  every  bud  which 
showed,  she  chose  to  have  picked  every  day,  and  squandered 
on  ornamenting  the  rooms  and  tables ; and  Ottilie  and  the 
gardener  were  not  a little  distressed  to  see  their  hopes  for 
the  next  year,  and  perhaps  for  a longer  time,  destroyed  in 
this  wanton  recklessness. 

As  little  would  she  be  content  to  leave  Ottilie  to  her  quiet 
work  at  home,  in  which  she  could  live  with  so  much  comfort. 
Ottilie  had  to  go  with  them  on  their  pleasure-parties  and 
sleighing-parties  : she  had  to  be  at  the  balls  which  were  being 
got  up  all  about  the  neighborhood.  She  was  not  to  mind 
the  snow,  or  the  cold,  or  the  night-air,  or  the  storm  : other 
people  did  not  die  of  such  things,  and  why  should  she?  The 
delicate  girl  suffered  not  a little  froin  it  all,  but  Luciana 
gained  nothing.  For  although  Ottilie  went  about  very  sim- 
ply dressed,  she  was  always,  at  least  so  the  men  thought,  the 
most  beautiful.  A soft  attractiveness  gathered  them  all 
about  her : no  matter  whei  eabouts  in  the  great  rooms  she 
was,  first  or  last,  it  was  always  the  same.  Even  Luciana’s 
bridegroom  often  conversed  with  her,  — the  more  so,  indeed, 
because  he  desired  her  advice  and  assistance  iu  a matter  just 
then  engaging  his  attention. 

He  had  cultivated  the  acquaintance  of  the  architect.  On 
seeing  his  collection  of  works  of  art,  he  had  taken  occasion 
to  talk  much  with  him  on  history  and  on  other  matters,  and 
especially  from  seeing  the  chapel  had  learned  to  aqipreeiate 
his  talent.  The  baron  was  young  and  wealthy.  He  was  a 
collector : he  wished  to  build.  His  love  for  the  arts  was 
keen,  his  knowledge  slight.  In  the  architect  he  thought  that 
he  had  found  the  man  he  wanted,  that  with  his  assistance 
there  was  mOre  than  one  aim  at  which  he  could  arrive  at  once. 
He  had  spoken  to  his  bride  of  what  he  wished.  She  praised 
him  for  it,  and  was  infinitely  delighted  with  the  proposal. 


246 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


But  it  was  more,  perliaps,  that  she  might  withdraw  this 
youug  man  from  Ottilie  (with  whom  she  fancied  she  saw 
that  he  was  somewhat  iu  love),  than  because  she  thought  of 
applying  his  talents  to  any  purpose.  He  had  shown  himself, 
indeed,  very  ready  to  help  at  any  of  her  extemporized  fes- 
tivities, and  had  suggested  various  resources  for  this  thing 
and  that.  But  she  always  thought  she  understood  better 
than  he  what  should  be  done  ; and,  as  her  inventive  genius 
was  usually  somewhat  common,  her  designs  could  be  as  well 
executed  with  the  help  of  a clever  valet  de  charnbre  as  with 
that  of  the  most  finished  artist.  F'urther  than  to  an  altar  on 
which  something  was  to  be  offered,  or  to  a crowning,  whether 
of  a living  head  or  of  one  of  plaster  of  Paris,  the  force  of 
her  imagination  could  not  ascend,  when  a birthday,  or  other 
such  occasion,  made  her  wish  to  pay  some  one  an  especial 
compliment. 

Ottilie  was  able  to  give  the  baron  the  most  satisfactory 
answer  to  his  inquiries  as  to  the  position  the  architect  held 
in  their  family.  Charlotte  had  already,  as  she  was  aware, 
been  exerting  herself  to  find  some  situation  for  him  : had  it 
not  been  indeed  for  the  arrival  of  the  party,  the  young  man 
would  have  left  them  immediately  on  the  completion  of  the 
chapel,  the  winter  having  brought  all  building  operations  to 
a standstill ; and  it  was,  therefore,  most  fortunate  if  a new 
l)atroii  could  be  found  to  assist  him,  and  to  make  use  cf  his 
talents. 

Ottilie’s  own  intercourse  with  the  architect  was  as  pure  and 
unconscious  as  possible.  His  agreeable  presence  and  his 
industrious  nature  had  charmed  and  entertained  her,  as  the 
presence  of  an  cider  brother  might.  Her  feelings  for  him 
remained  at  the  calm,  unimpassioned  level  of  blood  relation- 
ship : for  in  her  heart  there  was  no  room  for  more,  — it  was 
filled  to  overflowing  with  love  for  Edward ; only  God,  who 
interpenetrates  all  things,  could  share  with  hhn  the  posses- 
sion of  that  heart. 

Soon  they  were  in  the  depth  of  winter : the  weather  grew 
wilder,  the  roads  more  impracticable  ; and  therefore  it  seemed 
all  the  pleasanter  to  spend  the  waning  days  in  agreeable 
society.  With  short  intervals  of  ebb.  the  crowd  from  time 
to  time  flooded  up  over  the  house.  Officers  found  their  way 
there  froiji  distant  garrison-towns ; the  cultivated  among 
them  being  a most  welcome  addition,  the  ruder  the  incon- 
venience of  every  one.  Of  civilians,  too,  there  was  no  lack; 
and  one  day  the  count  and  the  baroness  quite  unexpectedly 
came  driving  up  together 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


247 


Their  presence  gave  the  castle  the  a'.r  of  a genuine  court. 
The  men  of  rank  and  character  formed  a circle  about  the 
baron,  and  the  ladies  yielded  precedence  to  the  baroness. 
The  surprise  at  seeing  both  togetlier,  and  in  such  high 
spirits,  was  not  allowed  to  be  of  long  continuance.  There 
was  a report  that  the  count’s  wife  was  dead,  and  the  new 
marriage  ^as  to  take  place  as  soon  as  ever  decency  would 
allow  it. 

Well  did  Ottilie  remember  their  first  visit,  and  every  word 
which  was  then  uttered  about  marriage  and  separation,  bind- 
ing and  dividing,  hoi)e,  expectation,  disappointment,  renun- 
ciation. Here  were  these  two  persons,  at  that  time  without 
prospect  for  the  future,  now  standing  before  her,  so  near 
their  wished-for  happiness  ; and  an  involuntary  sigh  escaped 
from  her  lieart. 

No  sooner  did  Luciana  hear  that  the  count  was  an  ama- 
teur of  music,  than  at  once  she  must  get  up  something  of  a 
concert,  yhe  herself  would  sing,  and  accompany  herself  on 
the  guitar.  It  was  done.  The  instrument  she  did  not  play 
without  skill ; her  voice  was  agreeable  ; as  for  the  words, 
one  understood  about  as  little  of  them  as  one  commonly 
does  when  a German  beauty  sings  to  the  guitar.  However, 
every  one  assured  her  that  she  had  sung  with ' exquisite 
expression  ; and  she  found  quite  enough  approbation  to  sat- 
isfy her.  A singular  misfortune  befell  lier,  however,  on 
this  occasion.  Among  the  parly  there  happened  to  be  a 
poet,  whom  she  hoped  particularly  to  attach  to  herself,  wish- 
ing to  induce  him  to  write  a song  or  two,  and  address  them 
to  her.  This  evening,  therefore,  she  produced  scarcely  any 
thing  except  songs  of  his  composing.  Like  the  rest  of  the 
party,  he  was  perfectly  courteous  to  her ; but  she  had  looked 
for  more.  She  spoke  to  him  several  times,  going  as  near 
the  subject  as  she  dared  ; but  nothing  further  could  she  get. 
At  last,  unable  to  bear  it  any  longer,  she  sent  one  of  her 
train  to  him,  to  sound  him,  and  find  out  whether  he  had  not 
been  delighted  to  hear  his  beautiful  poems  so  beautifully 
executed. 

“My  poems?”  he  replied  with  amazement.  “Pray  ex- 
cuse me,  my  dear  sir,”  he  added : “I  heard  nothing  but  the 
vowels,  and  not  all  of  those ; however,  I am  in  duty  bound 
to  express  my  gratitude  for  so  amiable  an  intention.”  The 
dandy  said  nothing,  and  kept  his  secret-:  the  other  endeav- 
ored to  get  himself  out  of  the  scrape  by  a few  well-timed 
compliments.  She  did  not  conceal  her  desire  to  have  some- 
thing of  his  which  should  be  written  for  herself. 


248 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


If  it  would  not  have  been  too  ill-natured,  he  might  have 
handed  her  the  alphabet,  to  imagine  for  herself,  out  of  that, 
such  laudatory  poem  as  would  please  her,  and  set  it  to  the 
first  melody  that  came  to  hand  ; but  she  was  not  to  escape  out 
of  this  business  without  mortification.  A short  time  after, 
she  had  to  learn  that  the  very  same  evening  lie  had  written 
to  one  of  Ottilie’s  favorite  melodies  a most  lovely  poem, 
which  was  something  more  than  complimentary. 

Luciana,  like  all  persons  of  her  sort,  who  never  can  dis- 
tinguish between  where  they  show  to  advantage  and  where 
to  disadvantage,  now  determined  to  try  her  fortune  in  recit- 
ing. Her  memory  was  good : but,  if  the  truth  must  be  told, 
her  execution  was  spiritless ; and  she  was  vehement  without 
being  passionate.  She  recited  ballad  stories,  and  whatever 
else  is  usually  delivered  in  declamation.  At  the  same  time 
she  had  contracted  an  unhappy  habit  of  accompanying  what 
she  recited  with  gestures,  b}’  which,  in  a disagreeable  way, 
what  is  purely  epic  and  lyric  is  more  confused  than  con- 
nected with  the  dramatic. 

The  count,  a keen-sighted  man,  soon  saw  through  the 
pai’ty,  — their  inclinations,  dispositions,  wishes,  and  capa- 
bilities, and  by  some  means  or  other  contrived  to  bi-ing 
Luciana  to  a new  kind  of  exhibition,  which  was  perfectly 
suited  to  her. 

“ I see  here,”  he  said,  “ a number  of  persons  with  fine 
figures,  who  would  surely  be  able  to  imitate  picturesque 
movements  and  postures.  Suppose  the}’  were  to  try.  if  the 
thing  is  new  to  them,  to  represent  some  real  and  well-known 
picture.  An  imitation  of  this  kind,  if  it  requires  some 
labor  in  arrangement,  has  an  inconceivably  charming  effect.” 

Luciana  was  quick  enough  in  perceiving  that  here  she  was 
on  her  own  ground  entirely.  Her  fine  shape,  her  well- 
rounded  form,  the  regularity  and  yet  exi>ressiveness  of  her 
features,  her  light-brown  braided  hair,  her  long  neck,  — she  > 
ran  them  all  over  in  her  mind,  and  calculated  on  their  picto- 
rial effects  ; and  if  she  had  only  known  that  her  beauty 
shov>'ed  to  more  advantage  when  she  was  still  than  when  she 
was  in  motion,  because  iu  the  last  case  certain  ungraceful- 
nesses continually  escai>ed  her,  she  would  have  entered  even 
more  eagerly  than  she  did  into  this  natural  picture-making. 

They  brought  forth  sr)iue  engravings  of  celebrated  pic-  ' 
tures,  and  the  first  which  the}'  chose  was  VAn  Dyck’s  “•  Eelisa-  • 
rius.”  A large,  well-i)roportioned  man,  somewhat  advanced  , 
in  years,  was  to  represent  the  seated  blind  general.  The  | 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


249 


architect  was  to  be  the  affectionate  soldier  standing  sorrow- 
ing before  him.  there  really  being  some  resemblance  between 
them.  Luciana,  half  from  modesty,  had  chosen  the  part  of 
the  young  woman  in  the  background,  counting  out  ample 
alms  into  tlie  palm  of  his  hand ; while  an  old  woman  beside 
her  is  trying  to  prevent  lier,  and  representing  that  she  is 
giving  too  much.  Nor  was  another  woman  who  is  in  the  act 
of  giving  him  something  forgotten.  Into  this  and  other 
pictures  they  threw  themselves  with  all  earnestness.  The 
count  gave  the  arcliitect  a few  hints  as  to  the  best  style  of 
arr.angemeut ; and  lie  at  once  set  up  a kind  of  theatre,  all 
necessary  pains  lieing  taken  for  the  proper  lighting  of  it. 
They  liad  already  made  many  preparations,  before  they 
observed  how  large  an  outlay  what  they  were  undertaking 
would  require,  and  that,  in  the  country,  in  the  middle  of  the 
winter,  man}’  things  which  they  required,  would  be  difficult 
to  procure  ; consequently,  to  prevent  a stoppage,  Luciana 
had  nearly  her  whole  wardrobe  cut  in  pieces,  to  supply  the 
various  costumes  which  the  original  artist  had  arbitrarily 
selected. 

The  appointed  evening  came  : and  the  exhibition  was  car- 
ried out  in  the  presence  of  a large  assemblage,  and  to  the 
universal  satisfaction.  They  had  some  good  music  to  excite 
expectation,  and  the  performance  opened  with  the  “ Belisa- 
rius.”  The  figures  were  so  successful,  the  colors  were  so 
happily  distributed,  and  the  lighting  managed  so  skilfully, 
that  they  might  really  have  fancied  themselves  in  another 
world ; only  that  the  presence  of  the  real,  instead  of  the 
apparent,  produced  a kind  of  uncomfortable  sensation. 

The  curtain  fell,  and  was  more  than  once  raised  again 
by  general  desire.  A musical  interlude  kept  the  assembly 
amused  while  i)reparation  was  going  forward  to  surprise 
them  with  a picture  of  a higher  stamp  : it  was  the  well-known 
design  of  Poussin,  Ahasuerus  and  Esther.  This  time  Luci- 
ana had  done  better  for  herself.  As  the  fainting,  sinking 
queen,  slie  had  put  out  all  her  charms  ; and,  for  the  attendant 
maidens  who  were  supporting  her,  she  had  cunningly  selected 
pretty,  well-shaped  figures,  not  one  among  whom,  however, 
had  the  slightest  pretension  to  be  compared  with  herself. 
From  this  picture,  as  from  all  the  rest,  Ottilie  remained 
excluded.  To  sit  on  the  golden  throne,  and  represent  the 
Zeus-like  monarch,  Luciana  had  picked  out  the  finest  and 
handsomest  man  of  the  party  : so  that  this  picture  was  really 
of  incomparable  perfection. 


250 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


For  a third,  they  had  taken  the  so-called  “ Father’s  Admo- 
nition ” of  Terburg  ; and  who  does  not  know  Wille’s  admira- 
ble engraving  of  this  picture?  One  foot  thrown  over  the 
other,  sits  a noble,  knightly-looking  father : his  daughter 
stands  before  him,  to  whose  conscience  he  seems  to  be 
appealing.  She,  a flue,  striking  figure,  in  a folding  drapery 
of  white  satin,  is  only  to  be  seen  from  behind  ; but  her  whole 
bearing  appears  to  signify  that  she  is  collecting  herself. 
That  the  admonition  is  not  too  severe,  that  she  is  not  being 
utterly  put  to  shame,  is  to  be  gathered  from  the  air  and 
attitude  of  the  father ; while  the  mother  seems  as  if  she  were 
trying  to  conceal  some  slight  embarrassment,  — she  is  looking 
into  a glass  of  wine,  which  she  is  on  the  point  of  drinking. 

Here  was  an  opportunity  for  Luciana  to  appear  in  her 
highest  splendor.  Her  back  hair,  the  foiTn  of  her  head, 
neck,  and  shoulders,  were  beautiful  beyond  all  conception ; 
and  the  waist,  which  in  the  modern  antique  of  the  ordinary 
dresses  of  young  ladies  is  hardly  visible,  showed  to  the 
greatest  advantage  in  all  its  graceful,  slender  elegance  in  the 
really  old  costume.  The  architect  had  contrived  to  dispose 
the  rich  folds  of  the  white  satin  with  the  most  artistic  natu- 
ralness ; and,  without  any  question  whatever,  this  living 
imitation  far  exceeded  the  original  picture,  and  produced 
universal  delight. 

The  spectators  never  ceased  demanding  a repetition  of 
the  performance ; and  the  very  natural  wish  to  see  the 
countenance  of  so  lovely  a creature,  when  they  had  done 
looking  at  her  from  behind,  at  last  became  so  decided,  that 
a merry,  impatient  young  wit  cried  out  aloud  the  words  one 
is  accustomed  to  write  at  the  bottom  of  a page.  “ Tournez, 
s'il  vous  plait,’'  which  was  echoed  all  round  the  room. 

The  performers,  however,  understood  their  advantage  too 
well,  and  had  mastered  too  completely  the  idea  of  these  works 
of  art,  to  yield  to  the  most  general  clamor.  The  daughter 
remained  standing  in  her  shame,  without  favoring  the  spec- 
tators with  the  expression  of  her  face  ; the  father  retained  liis 
attitude  of  admonition  ; and  the  mother  continued  with  her 
nose  and  eyes  in  the  transparent  glass,  in  which,  although 
she  seemed  to  be  drinking,  the  wine  never  diminished. 

We  need  not  describe  the  number  of  smaller  after-pieces, 
for  which  had  been  chosen  Flemish  public-house  scenes  and 
fair  and  market  days. 

The  count  and  the  baroness  departed,  promising  to  return 
in  the  first  happy  weeks  of  their  approaching  union.  And 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


251 


Charlotte  now  had  hopes,  after  ha\dng  endured  two  weary 
months  of  it,  of  ridding  herself  of  the  rest  of  the  party  at  the 
same  time.  She  was  assured  of  her  daughter’s  happiness, 
as  soon  as  the  first  tumult  of  youth  and  betrothal  should 
have  subsided  in  her ; for  the  bridegroom  considered  himself 
the  most  fortunate  person  in  the  world.  His  income  was 
large,  his  disposition  moderate  and  rational ; and  now  he 
found  himself  further  wonderfully  favored  in  the  happiness 
of  becoming  the  possessor  of  a young  lady  with  whom  all 
the  world  must  be  charmed.  He  had  so  peculiar  a way  of 
referring  every  thing  to  her,  and  only  to  himself  through  her, 
that  it  gave  him  an  unpleasant  feeling  when  any  newly 
arrived  person  did  not  devote  himself  heart  and  soul  to  her, 
and  was  far  from  flattered  if  — as  occasionally  happened, 
particularly  with  elderly  men  — he  neglected  her  for  a close 
intimacy  with  himself.  Every  thing  was  settled  about  the 
architect.  On  New-Year’s  Day  he  was  to  follow  him,  and 
spend  the  carnival  at  his  house  in  the  city,  where  Luciana 
was  promising  herself  infinite  happiness  from  a repetition  of 
her  charmingly  successful  pictures,  as  well  as  from  a hundred 
other  things  ; all  the  more  so  as  her  aunt  and  bridegroom 
seemed  to  make  so  light  of  whatever  expense  was  required 
for  her  amusements. 

And  now  they  were  to  break  up.  But  this  could  not  be 
managed  in  an  ordinary  way.  They  were  one  day  making 
fun  of  Charlotte  aloud,  declaring  that  they  would  soon  have 
eaten  out  her  winter  stores,  when  the  nobleman  who  had 
represented  Belisarius,  being  fortunately  a man  of  some 
wealth,  carried  away  by  Luciana’ s charms,  to  which  he  had 
been  so  long  devoting  himself,  cried  out  unthinkingly,  “Why 
not  manage,  then,  in  the  Polish  fashion?  jmu  come  now  and 
eat  up  me,  and  then  we  will  go  on  round  the  circle.’’  No 
sooner  said  than  done.  Luciana  acceded.  The  next  day 
they  all  packed  up,  and  the  swarm  alighted  on  a new  proj)- 
erty.  ' There  indeed  they  found  room  enough,  but  few  con- 
veniences, and  no  preparations  to  receive  them.  Out  of  this 
arose  many  contretemps,  which  entirely  enchanted  Luciana : 
their  life  became  ever  wilder  and  wilder.  Hunting-parties 
M'ere  set  on  foot  in  the  deep  snow,  attended  with  every  sort 
of  disagreeableness ; women  were  not  allowed  to  excuse 
themselves  any  more  than  men : and  so  they  trooped  on, 
hunting  and  riding,  sleighing  and  shouting,  from  one  place  to 
another,  till  at  last  they  approached  the  Residence  ; and  there 
the  news  of  the  day,  and  the  scandals,  and  what  else  forms 


252 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


the  amusement  of  people  at  courts  and  cities,  gave  the  imagi- 
nation another  direction : and  Luciana  with  her  train  of 
attendants  (her  aunt  had  gone  on  some  time  before)  swept 
at  once  into  a new  sphere  of  life. 

FROM  OTTILIE’S  DIARY. 

“ In  the  world  we  accept  every  person  as  such  as  he  gives 
himself  out,  only  he  must  give  himself  out  for  something. 

We  can  put  up  with  the  unpleasant  more  easily  than  we  can 
endure  the  insignificant. 

“Any  thing  may  be  forced  upon  society  except  what 
involves  a consequence. 

“We  never  learn  to  know  people  when  they  come  to  us  : ' 

we  must  go  to  them  to  find  out  how  things  stand  with  tliem. 

“ I find  it  almost  natural  that  we  should  see  manj' faults  ! 
in  visitors,  and  that  directly  they  are  gone  we  should  judge  i 
them  not  in  the  most  amiable  manner.  For  we  have,  so  to  ! 
say,  a right  to  measure  them  by  our  own  standard.  Even 
cautious,  sensible  men  can  scarcely  keep  themselves  in  such  I 
cases  from  being  sharp  censors. 

“ When,  on  the  contrary,  we  are  staying  at  the  houses  of 
others,  when  we  have  seen  them  in  the  midst  of  all  their 
habits  and  environments  among  those  necessary  conditions 
from  which  they  cannot  escape,  when  we  have  seen  how  they 
affect  those  about  them,  and  how  the}’  adapt  themselves  to 
their  circumstances,  it  is  ignorance,  it  is  worse,  it  is  ill-will, 
to  find  ridicvilous  what  in  more  than  one  sense  has  a claim  on 
our  respect. 

“That  which  we  call  politeness  and  good  breeding  effects 
what  otherwise  can  only  be  obtained  by  violence,  or  not  even 
by  that. 

“ Intercourse  with  women  is  the  element  of  good  manuei's. 

“ How  can  the  character,  the  individuality,  of  a man  co- 
exist with  polish  of  manuer? 

“ Peculiarity  of  character  can  only  be  properly  made  prom- 
inent through  good  manners.  Every  one  likes  what  has 
something  in  it,  only  it  must  not  be  a disagreeable  something. 

“In  life  generally,  and  in  society,  no  one  has  such  high 
advantages  as  a well-cultivated  soldier. 

“Rough  soldiers  do,  at  least,  betray  their  character:  and 
generally  behind  their  strength  there  is  a certain  latent  good- 
humor,  so  that  in  difficulties  it  is  possible  to  get  on  even 
with  them. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


253 


“ No  one  is  more  intolerable  than  an  imclerbred  civilian. 
From  him  one  has  a right  to  look  for  a delicacy,  as  he  has  no 
rough  work  to  do. 

“ When  we  are  living  with  people  who  have  a delicate  sense 
of  propriety,  we  are  made  uneasy  on  their  account  when 
any  thing  unbecoming  is  committed.  So  I always  feel  for 
and  with  Charlotte  when  a person  is  rocking  his  chair.  She 
cannot  endure  it. 

“ No  one  would  ever  come  into  a mixed  party  with  spec- 
tacles on  his  nose,  if  he  did  but  know  that  at  once  we  women 
lose  all  pleasure  in  looking  at  him  or  listening  to  what  he 
has  to  say. 

“Familiarity,  when  displayed  instead  of  reverency,  is 
always  ridiculous.  No  one  would  put  his  hat  down  when  he 
had  scarcely  paid  the  ordinary  compliments  if  he  knew  how 
comical  it  looks. 

“There  is  no  outward  sign  of  courtesy  that  does  not  rest 
on  a deep  moral  foundation.  The  proper  education  would  bo 
that  which  communicated  the  sign  and  the  foundation  of  it 
at  the  same  time. 

“ Behavior  is  a mirror  in  which  every  one  displays  his  own 
image. 

“ There  is  a courtesy  of  the  heart.  It  is  akin  to  love.  Out 
of  it  arises  the  easiest  courtesy  in  outward  behavior. 

“A  freely  offered  homage  is  the  most  beautiful  of  all  re- 
lations. And  how  were  that  possible  without  love? 

“We  are  never  farther  from  our  wishes  than  when  we 
imagine  that  we  possess  what  we  have  desired. 

“No  one  is  more  a slave  than  the  man  who  thinks  himself 
free  while  he  is  not. 

“The  moment  a man  declares  he  is  free,  he  feels  the  con- 
ditions to  which  he  is  subject.  Let  him  venture  to  declare 
that  he  is  subject  to  conditions,  and  he  will  feel  that  he  is  free. 

“ Against  great  advantages  in  another,  there  are  no  means 
of  defending  ourselves  except  love. 

“ There  is  something  terrible  in  the  sight  of  a highly  gifted 
man  lying  under  obligations  to  a fool. 

“ ‘ No  man  is  a hero  to  his  valet,’  the  proverb  says.  But 
that  is  only  because  it  requires  a hero  to  recognize  a hero. 
The  valet  will  probably  know  how  to  value  the  valet-hero. 

“ Mediocrity  has  no  greater  consolation  than  in  the  thought 
that  genius  is  not  immortal. 

‘ ‘ The  greatest  men  are  connected  with  their  own  century 
always  through  some  weakness. 


254 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


‘ ‘ One  is  apt  to  I’egard  people  as  more  dangerous  than  they 
are. 

“ Fools  and  modest  people  are  alike  innocuous.  It  is  only 
your  half-fools  and  your  half-wise  who  are  reall}^  and  truly 
dangerous. 

“ There  is  no  better  deliverance  from  the  world  than 
through  art ; and  a man  can  form  no  surer  bond  with  it  than 
through  art. 

“ Alike  in  the  moment  of  our  highest  fortune  and  our 
deepest  necessity,  we  require  the  artist. 

“ The  liusiness  of  art  is  with  the  difficult  and  the  good. 

“ To  see  the  difficult  easily  handled,  gives  us  the  feeling  of 
the  impossible. 

“ Difficulties  increase  the  nearer  wc  are  to  our  end. 

“ Sowing  is  not  so  difficult  as  reaping.” 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Charlotte  was  in  some  way  compensated  for  the  very 
serious  discomfort  this  visit  had  caused  her  through  the 
fuller  insight  it  had  enabled  her  to  gain  into  her  daughter’s 
character.  In  this,  her  knowledge  of  the  world  was  of  no 
slight  service  to  her.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that  so  singu- 
lar a character  had  come  across  her,  although  she  had  never 
seen  any  in  which  the  unusual  features  were  so  highly  de- 
veloped ; and  she  had  had  experience  enough  to  show  her 
that  such  persons,  after  having  felt  the  discipline  of  life,  after 
having  gone  through  something  of  it  and  been  in  intercourse 
with  older  people,  may  come  out  at  last  really  charming  and 
amiable : the  selfishness  ma}'  soften,  and  eager,  restless 
activity  find  a definite  direction  for  itself.  And  therefore, 
as  a mother,  Charlotte  was  able  to  endure  the  apiiearauce  of 
S3'mptoms  which  for  others  might  perhaps  have  been  uupleas- 
ing,  from  a sense  that  where  strangers  onlj’  desire  to  enjoy, 
or  at  least  not  to  have  their  taste  offended,  the  business  of 
parents  is  rather  to  hope. 

After  her  daughter’s  departure,  however,  she  had  to  be 
pained  in  a singular  and  unlooked-for  manner,  in  finding 
that,  not  so  much  through  what  there  really  was  objectionable 
in  her  behavior,  as  through  what  was  good  and  praiseworthy 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


255 


in  it,  she  had  left  an  ill  report  of  herself  behind  her.  Lu- 
ciana  seemed  to  have  prescribed  it  as  a rule  to  herself,  not 
only  to  be  merry  with  the  merry,  but  miserable  with  the 
miserable,  and,  in  order  to  give  full  exercise  to  her  spirit  of 
contradiction,  often  to  make  the  happy  uncomfortable,  and 
the  sad  cheerful.  In  every  family  among  whom  she  came, 
she  inquired  after  such  members  of  it  as  were  ill  or  infirm, 
and  unable  to  appear  in  society.  She  would  go  to  see  them 
in  their  rooms,  act  the  part  of  physician,  and  insist  on  pre- 
scribing powerful  doses  for  them  out  of  her  owu  travelling 
medicine-chest,  which  she  constantly  took  with  her  in  her 
carriage  ; her  attempts  at  curing,  as  may  be  supposed,  either 
succeeding  or  failing  as  chance  happened  to  direct. 

In  this  sort  of  benevolence  she  was  thoroughly  cruel,  and 
would  listen  to  nothing  that  was  said  to  her,  because  she 
was  convinced  that  she  was  managing  admirably.  One  such 
attempt,  made  on  a mental  sufferer,  failed  most  disastrously  ; 
and  this  it  was  which  gave  Charlotte  so  much  trouble,  inas- 
much as  it  involved  eoiisequeuces,  and  every  one  was  talking 
about  it.  She  never  had  heard  of  the  story  till  Luciana  was 
gone  : Ottilie,  who  had  made  one  of  the  party  present  at  the 
time,  had  to  give  her  a circumstantial  account  of  it. 

One  of  several  daughters  of  a family  of  rank  had  the 
misfortune  to  have  caused  the  death  of  one  of  her  younger 
sisters  : it  had  destroyed  her  peace  of  mind,  and  she  had 
never  been  able  to  recover  from  the  shock.  She  lived  in  her 
own  room,  occupying  herself,  and  keeping  quiet ; and  she 
could  only  bear  to  see  the  members  of  her  own  family  when 
they  came  one  by  one.  If  there  were  several  together,  she 
suspected  at  once  that  they  were  making  reflections  upon  her 
and  her  condition.  To  each  of  them  singty  she  would  speak 
rationally  enough,  and  talk  freely  for  an  hour  at  a time. 

Luciana  had  heard  of  this,  ■and  had  secretly  determined 
with  herself,  as  soon  as  she  got  into  the  house,  that  she 
would,  as  it  were,  work  a miracle,  and  restore  the  young 
lady  to  society.  She  conducted  herself  in  the  matter  more 
prudently  than  usual,  managed  to  introduce  herself  alone  to 
the  poor,  sick-souled  girl,  and,  as  far  as  people  could  under- 
stand, had  wound  her  way  into  her  confidence  through 
music.  At  last  came  her  fatal  mistake : wishing  to  cause  a 
sensation,  and  fancying  she  had  sufficiently  prepared  her  for 
it,  one  evening  she  suddenly  introduced  the  beautiful,  pale 
creature  into  the  midst  of  tlie  brilliant,  glittering  assembly ; 
and  perhaps  even  then  the  attempt  might  not  have  so 


256 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


utterly  failed,  had  not  the  company,  from  curiosity  and 
apprehension,  conducted  themselves  so  unwisely,  first  gath- 
ering about  the  invalid,  and  avoiding  her,  and,  with  their 
whispers,  and  shaking  their  heads  together,  confusing  aud 
agitating  her.  Her  delicate  sensibility  could  not  endure  it. 
With  a dreadful  shriek,  which  expressed,  as  it  seemed,  a 
horror  at  some  monster  that  was  rusliing  upon  her.  she 
fainted.  The  crowd  fell  back  in  terror  on  eveiy  side,  Ottilie 
being  one  of  those  who  brought  the  fainting  girl  to  her  room. 

Luciana  meanwhile,  just  like  herself,  had  been  reading  an 
angry  lecture  to  the  rest  of  the  part}’,  without  reflecting  for 
a moment  that  she  lierself  was  entirely  to  blame,  and  with- 
out letting  herself  be  deterred,  by  this  and  other  failures, 
from  going  on  with  her  experiineiitalizing. 

The  state  of  the  invalid  herself  had  since  that  time 
become  more  and  more  serious : indeed,  the  disorder  had 
increased  to  such  a degree  that  the  parents  were  unable  to 
keep  their  poor  child  any  longer  at  home,  and  had  been 
forced  to  confide  her  to  the  care  of  a public  institution. 
Nothing  remained  for  Charlotte  except,  by  the  delicacy  of 
her  own  attention  to  the  family,  in  some  degree  to  alleviate 
the  pain  which  had  been  occasioned  by  her  daughter.  On 
Ottilie  the  event  had  made  a deep  impression,  yiie  felt  the 
more  for  the  unhappy  girl,  as  she  was  convinced,  not 
withholding  her  opinion  from  Charlotte,  that,  by  a careful 
treatment,  the  disorder  might  have  been  unquestionably 
removed. 

So  there  came,  too,  as  it  often  happens  that  we  dwell  more 
on  past  disagreeables  than  on  i>ast  agreeables,  a slight  mis- 
understanding to  be  spoken  of,  which  had  led  Ottilie  to  a 
wrong  judgment  of  the  architect,  when  he  did  not  choose  to 
produce  his  collection  that  evening,  although  she  had  so 
eagerly  begged  him  to  produce  it.  This  decided  refusal  had 
remained,  ever  since,  hanging  about  her  heart ; she  herself 
could  not  tell  why.  Her  feelings  about  the  matter  were 
undoubtedly  just : what  a young  lady  like  Ottilie  could 
desire,  a young  man  like  the  architect  ought  not  to  have 
refused.  The  latter,  however,  when  she  took  occasion  to 
give  him  a gentle  reproof  for  it,  had  a pretty  good  plea 
to  offer. 

“•If  you  knew,”  he  s.aid,  “how  roughly  even  cultivated 
people  allow  themselves  to  handle  the  most  valuable  works 
of  art,  you  would  forgive  me  for  not  i)roducing  mine  among 
the  crowd.  No  one  will  take  the  trouble  to  hold  a medal  by 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


257 


the  rim.  The}^  will  finger  the  most  beautiful  impressions 
and  the  smoothest  surfaces : they  will  take  the  rarest  coins 
between  the  thumb  and  forefinger,  and  rub  them  up  and 
down,  as  if  the}'  were  testing  the  execution  with  the  touch. 
Without  remembering  that  a large  sheet  of  paper  ought  to 
be  held  in  two  hands,  they  will  lay  hold  with  one  of  an 
invaluable  engraving  of  some  irretrievable  drawing,  as  a con- 
ceited politician  lays  hold  of  a newspaper,  and  passing  judg- 
ment by  anticipation,  as  he  is  cutting  the  i>ages,  on  the 
occurrences  of  the  world.  Nobody  cares  to  lecollect,  that, 
if  twenty  i)eople,  one  after  the  other,  treat  a work  of  art  in 
this  way,  the  one  and  twentieth  will  not  find  much  to  see 
there.” 

“ Have  not  I often  vexed  you  in  this  way?  ” asked  Ottilie. 
“Have  not  1,  through  my  carelessness,  many  times  injured 
your  treasures?  ” 

“Never  once,”  answered  the  architect,  “never.  For 
you  it  would  be  impossible.  In  you  the  right  thing  is 
innate.” 

“In  any  case,”  replied  Ottilie,  “it  would  not  be  a bad 
plan,  if,  in  the  next  edition  of  the  book  on  good  manners, 
after  the  chapters  which  tell  us  how  we  ougiit  to  cat  and 
drink  in  company,  an  exhaustive  chapter  were  inserted,  how 
to  behave  among  works  of  art  and  in  museums.” 

“ Undoubtedly,”  said  the  architect : “ and  then  curiosity- 
collectors  and  amateurs  would  be  better  contented  to  show 
their  valuable  treasures  to  the  world.” 

Ottilie  had  long,  long  forgiven  him ; but  as  he  seemed  to 
have  taken  her  reproof  sorely  to  heart,  and  assured  her' 
1 again  and  again  that  he  would  gladly  produce  every  thing, 
that  he  was  delighted  to  do  any  thing  for  his  friends,  she 
felt  that  she  had  wounded  his  feelings,  and  that  she  owed 
him  some  compensation.  It  was  not  easy  for  her,  therefore, 
to  give  an  absolute  refusal  to  a request  which  he  made  her 
in  the  conclusion  of  this  conversation  ; although,  when  she 
called  her  heart  into  counsel  al)out  it,  she  did  not  see  how 
she  could  allow  herself  to  do  what  he  wished. 

The  circumstances  of  the  matter  were  these : that  Ottilie 
had  been  excluded  from  the  picture-exhibition  through  Luci- 
ana’s  jealousy  had  irritated  him  in  the  highest  degree  ; and 
' at  the  same  time  he  had  observed  with  regret  that  Charlotte 
‘ had  been  prevented  by  sickness  from  being  often  present  at 
this,  the  most  brilliant  part  of  all  the  amusements  ; and  now 
I he  did  not  wish  to  go  away  without  some  additional  proof  of 


258 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


his  gratitude,  and,  for  the  honor  of  one  and  the  entertain- 
ment of  the  other,  preparing  a far  more  beautiful  exhibition 
tlian  any  of  those  which  had  preceded  it.  Perhaps,  too, 
unknown  to  himself,  another  secret  motive  was  working  on 
him.  It  wxas  so  hard  for  liim  to  leave  the  house  and  to 
leave  the  family.  It  seemed  impossible  to  him  to  part  from 
Ottilie’s  eyes,  under  the  calm,  sweet,  gentle  glances  of 
wliich  he  had,  the  latter  part  of  the  time,  been  living  almost 
entirely. 

The  Christmas  holidays  were  approaching  ; and  it  became 
at  once  clear  to  him  that  the  very  thing  which  he  wanted 
was  a representation,  with  real  figures,  of  one  of  those 
pictures  of  the  scene  in  the  stable,  — a sacred  exhibition 
such  as  at  this  holy  season  good  Christians  delight  to  offer 
to  the  divine  mother  and  her  child,  of  the  manner  in  which 
she,  in  her  seeming  lowliness,  was  honored  first  by  the  shep- 
herds and  afterwards  by  kings. 

He  had  formed  a perfect  conception  how  such  a picture 
might  be  contrived.  A handsome  and  blooming  boy  was 
found,  and  there  would  be  no  lack  of  shepherds  and  shep- 
herdesses. But  without  Ottilie  the  thing  could  not  be  done. 
The  jmung  man  had  exalted  her,  in  his  design,  to  be  the 
Mother  of  God ; and,  if  she  refused,  there  was  no  question 
but  the  undertaking  must  fall  to  the  ground.  Ottilie.  half 
embarrassed  at  the  proposal,  refeiTcJ  him  and  his  request 
to  Charlotte.  The  latter  gladly  gave  her  permission,  and 
lent  her  assistance  in  overcoming  and  overpersuading  Otti- 
lie’s hesitation  in  assuming  so  sacred  a personality.  The 
architect  worked  da}"  and  night,  that  by  Christmas  Eve  every 
thing  might  be  ready. 

Day  and  night,  indeed,  in  the  literal  sense.  At  all  times 
he  was  a man  who  had  but  few  necessities,  and  Ottilie’s 
presence  seemed  to  be  to  him  in  the  place  of  all  delicacies. 
When  he  was  working  for  her,  it  was  as  if  he  required 
no  sleep  ; when  he  was  busy  about  her,  as  if  he  could  do 
without  food.  Accordingly,  by  the  hour  of  the  evening 
solemnity,  all  was  completed.  He  had  found  the  means  of 
collecting  some  well-toned  wind  instruments,  to  form  an 
introduction,  and  produce  the  desired  disimsition.  But,  when 
the  curtain  rose,  Charlotte  was  taken  completely  by  surprise. 
The  picture  which  presented  itself  to  her  had  been  repeated 
so  often  in  the  world,  that  one  could  scarcely  have  expected 
any  new  impression  to  be  iiroduced.  But  here  the  reality, 
as  representing  the  picture,  had  its  especial  advantages. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


259 


The  whole  space  was  the  color  rather  of  night  than  of 
twilight ; and  there  was  nothing,  even  of  the  details  of  the 
scene,  which  was  obscure.  The  inimitable  idea  that  all  the 
light  should  proceed  from  the  child,  the  artist  had  contrived 
to  carry  out  by  an  ingenious  method  of  illumiiiatiou,  which 
was  concealed  by  the  figures  in  the  foreground,  who  were  all 
in  shadow.  Merry  boys  and  girls  were  standing  round, 
their  rosy  faces  sharply  lighted  from  below  ; and  there  were 
angels,  too,  whose  own  brilliancy  grew  pale  before  the 
divine,  whose  ethereal  bodies  showed  dim  and  dense,  and 
needing  other  light  in  the  presence  of  the  body  of  the  divine 
humanity.  By  good  fortune  the  infant  had  fallen  asleep  in 
the  loveliest  attitude  ; so  that  nothing  disturbed  the  coutem- 
plation  when  the  eye  rested  on  the  seeming  mother,  who 
with  infinite  grace  had  lifted  off  a veil  to  reveal  her  hidden 
treasure.  *At  this  moment  the  picture  seemed  to  have  been 
caught,  and  there  to  have  remained  fixed.  Physically  daz- 
zled, mentally  surprised,  the  people  round  appeared  to  have 
just  moved  to  turn  away  their  half-blinded  eyes,  to  be  glan- 
cing again  towards  the  child  with  curious  delight,  and  to  be 
showing  more  wonder  and  pleasure  than  awe  and  reverence, 
— although  these  emotions  were  not  forgotten,  and  were  to 
be  traced  upon  the  features  of  some  of  the  older  si)ectators. 

But  Otfilie’s  figure,  expression,  attitude,  glance,  excelled 
all  that  any  painter  has  ever  represented.  A man  possessed 
of  true  knowledge  of  art,  could  he  have  seen  this  spectacle, 
would  have  been  in  fear  lest  any  portion  of  it  should  move  : 
he  would  have  doubted  whether  any  thing  could  ever  so 
much  please  him  again.  Unluckily  there  was  no  one  present 
who  could  comprehend  the  whole  of  this  effect.  The  archi- 
tect alone,  who,  as  a tall,  slender  shepherd,  was  looking 
in  from  the  side  over  those  who  were  kneeling,  enjoyed, 
although  he  was  not  in  the  best  position  for  seeing,  the 
fullest  pleasure.  And  who  can  describe  the  mien  of  the 
new-made  queen  of  heaven?  The  purest  humility,  the  most 
exquisite  feeling  of  modesty,  while  having  undeservedly 
bestowed  upon  her  a great  honor,  an  indescribable  and 
immeasurable  happiness  was  displayed  upon  her  features, 

^ expressing  as  much  her  own  emotion  as  that  of  the  char- 
acter which  she  was  endeavoring  to  represent. 

I Charlotte  was  delighted  with  the  beautiful  figures,  but 
! what  had  most  effect  on  her  was  the  child.  Her  eyes  filled 
with  tears  ; and  her  imagination  presented  to  her,  in  the  live- 
. liest  colors,  that  she  might  soon  hope  to  have  such  another 
1 darling  creature  on  her  own  lap. 

i 


260 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


They  liad  let  down  the  curtain,  partly  to  give  the  exhibit- 
ors seme  little  rest,  partly  to  make  an  alteration  in  the 
exhibition.  The  artist  had  proposed  to  liimself  to  trans- 
mute the  first  scene  of  night  and  lowliness  into  a picture  of 
splendor  and  glory,  and  for  this  purpose  liad  prepared  a 
blaze  of  light  to  fall  in  from  every  side,  which  tliis  interval 
was  required  to  kindle. 

Ottilie,  in  the  semi-theatrical  position  in  which  she  found 
herself,  had  hitherto  felt  perfectly  at  her  ease  ; because,  with 
the  exceiition  of  Charlotte  and  a few  members  of  the  house- 
hold, no  one  had  witnessed  this  pious  piece  of  artistic  dis- 
play. 8he  was,  therefore,  in  some  degree  annoj’ed,  when, 
in  the  interval,  she  lea.rned  that  a stranger  had  come  into  the 
saloon,  and  had  been  warmly  received  by  Charlotte.  Who 
it  was,  no  one  was  able  to  tell  her.  She  resigned  henself,  in 
order  not  to  produce  a disturbance,  and  to  go  on  with  her 
character.  Candles  and  lanqis  blazed  out,  and  she  was  sur- 
rounded by  splendor  perfectly  iulinitc.  The  curtain  rose. 
It  was  a sight  to  startle  the  siiectators.  The  whole  picture 
was  one  blaze  of  light ; and,  instead  of  the  full  dejith  of 
shadow,  there  now  were  only  the  colors  left  remaining, 
which,  from  the  skill  with  which  they  had  been  selected, 
produced  a gentle  softening  of  tone.  Looking  ^ont  under 
her  long  eyelashes,  Ottilie  perceived  the  figure  of  a man 
sitting  by  Charlotte.  She  did  not  recognize  him,  bnt  the 
voice  she  fancied  was  that  of  the  assistant  at  the  school. 
A singular  emotion  came  over  her.  How  many  things 
had  haiipened  since  she  last  heard  the  voice  of  her  kind 
instructor ! Like  forked  lightning  the  stream  of  her  joys 
and  her  sorrow  flashed  through  her  soul ; and  the  question 
rose  in  her  heart.  “ Dare  yon  confess,  dare  you  acknowledge, 
it  all  to  him?  If  not,  how  little  can  yon  deserve  to  appear 
before  him  unde"  this  sainted  form  ! And  how  strange  must 
it  not  seem  to  him,  who  has  only  known  you  as  your  natural 
self,  to  see  you  now  under  this  disguise  ! ” In  an  instant, 
swift  as  thought,  feeling  and  reflection  began  to  clash  and 
gain  within  her.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  while  she  forced 
herself  to  continue  to  appear  g,s  a rigid  figure  ; and  it  was  a 
relief  indeed  to  her  when  the  child  began  to  stir,  and  the 
artist  saw  himself  compelled  to  give  the  sign  for  the  curtain 
to  fall  again. 

If  the  painful  feeling  of  being  unable  to  meet  a valued 
friend  had,  during  the  last  few  moments,  been  distressing 
Ottilie,  in  addition  to  her  other  emotions,  she  was  now  in 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


261 


still  greater  embarrassmeut.  Was  she  to  present  herself  to 
him  ill  this  strange  disguise,  or  had  she  better  change  her 
dress?  She  did  not  hesitate:  she  did  the  latter,  and  in  the 
interval  she  endeavored  to  collect  and  to’  compose  herself ; 
nor  did  she  properly  recover  her  self-possession,  until  at 
last,  in  her  ordinary  costume,  she  had  welcomed  the  new 
visitor. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

In  so  far  as  the  architect  desired  the  happiness  of  his  kind 
patronesses,  it  was  a pleasure  to  him,  now  that  at  last  he 
was  obliged  to  go,  to  know  that  he  was  leaving  them  in  good 
society  with  the  estimable  assistant.  At  the  same  time, 
however,  when  he  thought  of  their  goodness  in  its  relation  to 
himself,  he  could  not  help  feeling  it  a little  painful  to  see  his 
place  so  soon,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  his  modesty,  so  well,  so 
completely,  supj)lied.  He  had  lingered  and  lingered,  but 
now  he  forced  himself  away  : what,  after  he  was  gone,  .he 
must  endure  as  he  could,  at  least  he  could  not  stay  to  wit- 
ness with  his  own  eyes. 

To  the  great  relief  of  this  half-melancholy  feeling,  the 
ladies  at  his  departure  made  him  a present  of  a waistcoat, 
on  which  he  had  watched  them  both  for  some  time  past  at 
work,  with  a silent  envy  of  the  fortunate  man,  as  yet 
unknown  to  him,  to  whom  it  might  one  day  belong.  Such  a 
present  is  the  most  agreeable  which  a true-hearted  man  can 
receive ; for,  while  he  thinks  of  the  unwearied  play  of  the 
beautiful  fingers  at  the  making  of  it,  he  cannot  help  flatter- 
ing himself  that  in  so  long-sustained  a labor  the  feeling 
could  not  have  remained  utterly  without  an  interest  in  its 
accomplishment. 

The  ladies  liad  now  a new  visitor  to  entertain,  for  whom 
they  felt  a real  regard,  and  whose  stay  with  them  it  would  be. 
their  endeavor  to  make  as  agreeable  as  they  could.  There  / 
is  in  all  women  a peculiar  circle  of  inward  interests,  which  v 
remain  always  the  same,  and  from  which  nothing  in  the  world  ■ 
cau  divorce  them.  In  outward  social  intercourse,  on  the 
other  hand,  they  will  gladly  and  easilj'  allow  themselves  to 
take  their  tone  from  the  person  with  whom  at  the  moment 
they  are  occupied  ; and  thus,  by  a mixture  of  impassiveness 


262 


IjlLECTIVE  AFFiXITIES. 


and  susceptibility,  by  persisting  and  by  yielding,  they  con« 
tinne  to  keep  the  government  to  themselves  : and  no  man 
of  good  behavior  can  ever  take  it  from  t'.iem.” 

Tlie  architect,  following  at  the  same  time  his  own  fancy 
and  his  own  inclination,  had  been  exerting  himself  and 
putting  out  his  talents  for  their  gratification  and  for  the 
jnirposes  of  his  friends  ; and  business  and  amusement,  while 
lie  was  with  them,  had  lieen  conducted  in  this  spirit,  and 
directed  to  the  ends  which  most  suited  his  taste.  But  now 
in  a short  time,  through  the  i)rescnce  of  the  assistant, 
quite  another  sort  of  life  was  commenced.  His  great  gift 
was  to  talk  well,  and  to  treat,  in  his  conversation,  of  men 
and  human  relations,  [)articularl}’  in  reference  to  the  culti- 
vation of  young  people.  Thus  arose  a very  perceptible 
contrast  to  the  life  which  had  been  going  on  hitherto,  all 
the  more  as  the  assistant  could  not  entirely  approve  of 
their  having  interested  themselves  in  such  subjects  so  ex- 
clusively. 

Of  the  impersonated  picture  which  received  him  on  his 
arrival,  he  never  said  a single  word.  On  the  other  hand, 
when  they  took  him  to  see  the  church  and  the  chapel  with 
their  new  decorations,  expecting  that  it  would  please  him 
as  much  as  they  were  pleased  with  it  themselves,  he  did 
not  refrain  from  expressing  his  opinion. 

“ This  mixing  up  of  the  holy  with  the  sensuous,”  he 
said,  “is  any  thing  but  pleasing  to  my  taste:  I cannot  like 
men  to  set  apart  certain  especial  places,  consecrate  them, 
and  deck  them  out,  that  by  so  doing  they  may  nourish  in 
themselves  a temper  of  piety.  No  surroundings,  not  even 
the  most  common,  must  disturb  in  us  that  sense  of  the 
divine  which  accompanies  us  wherever  we  are,  and  can 
consecrate  every  spot  into  a temple.  What  i)leases  me  is, 
to  see  a home-service  of  God  held  in  the  saloon  where 
])eople  come  together  to  eat,  where  they  have«their  parties, 
and  amuse  themselves  with  games  and  dances.  What  is 
highest,  the  most  excellent  in  men,  has  no  form  ; and  one 
should  be  cautious  how  one  gives  it  any  form  except  noble 
action.” 

Charlotte,  who  was  already  generally  acquainted  with  his 
mode  of  thinking,  and,  in  the  short  time  he  had  been  at 
the  castle,  had  already  probed  it  more  deeply,  found  some- 
thing also  which  he  might  do  for  her  in  his  own  department ; 
and  she  had  her  garden  children,  whom  the  architect  had 
reviewed  shortly  before  his  departure,  marshalled  up  into  the 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


2G3 


great  saloon.  In  their  clean,  bright  uniforms,  witli  their 
regular  movement,  and  their  own  natural  vivacity,  they 
looked  exceedingly  well.  The  assistant  examined  them  in 
his  own  way,  and  by  a variety  of  questions,  and  by  the  turns 
he  gave  them,  soon  brought  to  light  the  capacities  and  dis- 
positions of  the  children  ; and,  without  its  seeming  so,  in  the 
space  of  less  than  one  hour  he  had  really  given  them  impor- 
tant instruction  and  assistance. 

“How  did  you  manage  that?”  said  Charlotte,  as  the 
children  marched  away.  “I  listened  with  all  my  atten- 
tion. Nothing  was  brought  forward  except  things  which 
were  quite  familiar ; and  yet  I cannot  tell  the  least  how 
I should  begiu,  to  bring  them  to  be  discussed  in  so  short 
a time  so  methodically,  with  all  this  questioning  and  an- 
swering.” 

“Perhaps,”  replied  the  assistant,  “we  ought  to  make 
a secret  of  the  tricks  of  our  own  handicraft.  However, 
I will  not  hide  from  you  one  very  simple  maxim,  wdth  the 
help  of  which  you  may  do  this,  and  a great  deal  more 
than  this.  Take  any  subject,  a substance,  an  idea,  what- 
ever you  like,  keep  fast  hold  of  it,  make  yourself  thor- 
oughly acquainted  with  it  in  all  its  parts ; and  then  it 
will  be  easy  for  you,  in  conversation,  to  find  out,  with  a 
mass  of  children,  how  much  about  it  has  already  devel- 
oped itself  in  them  ; what  requires  to  be  stimulated,  what 
to  be  directly  communicated.  The  answers  to  your  ques- 
tions may  be  as  unsatisfactory  as  they  will,  they  may  wan- 
der wide  of  the  mark : if  yon  only  take  care  that  your 
counter-question  shall  draw  their  thoughts  and  senses  in- 
wards again,  if  you  do  not  allow  yourself  to  be  driven 
from  your  own  position,  the  children  will  at  last  reflect, 
comprehend,  learn  only  what  the  teacher  desires  them  to 
learn  ; and  the  subject  will  be  presented  to  them  in  the  light 
in  which  he  wishes  them  to  see  it.  The  greatest  mistake 
which  he  can  make  is,  to  allow  himself  to  be  run  away  with 
from  the  subject,  not  to  know  how  to  keep  fast  to  the  point 
with  w'hich  he  is  engaged.  Try  it  the  next  time  the  children 
come : you  will  find  you  will  be  greatly  entertained  by  it 
yourself.” 

“ That  is  very  pretty,”  said  Charlotte.  “ The  right  method 
of  teaching  is  the  reverse,  I see,  of  what  we  must  do  in  life. 
In  society  we  must  keep  the  attention  long  upon  nothing ; 
and  in  instruction  the  first  commandment  is,  to  permit  no  dis- 
sipation of  it.” 


264 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


“ Variety,  without  dissipation,  were  the  best  motto  for  both 
teaching  and  life,  if  it  were  easy  to  preserve  this  desirable 
equipoise,”  said  the  assistant ; and  he  was  going  on  farther 
with  the  subject,  when  Charlotte  desired  him  to  look  again  at 
the  children,  wliose  merry  band  was  at  the  moment  moving 
across  the  court.  He  expressed  his  satisfaction  at  seeing 
them  wearing  a uniform.  “ Men,”  he  said,  “■  should  wear  a 
uniform  from  their  childhood  upwards.  They  have  to  accus- 
tom themselves  to  work  together  ; to  lose  themselves  among 
their  equals  ; to  obey  in  masses,  and  to  work  on  a large  scale. 
Flvery  kind  of  uniform,  moreover,  generates  a militaiy  habit 
of  thought,  and  a smart,  straightforward  carriage.  All  boys 
are  born  soldiers,  whatever  you  do  with  them.  You  have  only 
to  watch  them  at  their  mock  tights  and  games,  their  stormiug- 
parties  and  scaling-parties.” 

“ On  the  other  hand,  you  will  not  blame  me,”  replied  Ot- 
tilie,  “ if  I do  not  insist  with  m3’  girls  on  such  unity  of  cos- 
tume. When  I introduce  them  to  3’ou,  1 hope  to  gratif}'  3’ou 
by  a party-colored  mixture.” 

“ I approve  of  that  entirel}',”  replied  the  other.  “ Women 
should  go  about  in  eveiy  sort  of  varictv  of  dress  : each  follow- 
ing her  own  style  and  her  own  likings,  that  each  may  learn 
to  feel  what  sits  well  upon  her,  and  becomes  her.  And  for  a 
more  weight}’ reason  as  well,  — because  it  is  appointed  for 
them  to  stand  alone  all  their  lives,  and  work  alone.” 

“ That  seems  to  me  to  be  a paradox,”  answered  Charlotte, 
“Are  we,  then,  to  be  never  any  thing  for  ourselves?  ” 

“ Oh,  }’es  ! ” replied  the  assistant.  “In  respect  of  other 
women  assuredl}'.  But  observe  a young  lady  as  a lover,  as  a 
bride,  as  a housewife,  as  a mother.  She  always  stands  iso- 
lated. She  is  always  alone,  and  will  be  alone.  Even  the  most 
empt}’-headed  woman  is  in  the  same  case.  Each  one  of  them 
excludes  all  others.  It  is  her  nature  to  do  so.  because  of 
each  one  of  them  is  required  eveiy  thing  which  <he  entire  sex 
have  to  do.  With  a man  it  is  altogether  different.  He  would 
make  a second  man  if  there  were  none.  But  a woman  might 
live  to  all  eternity,  withoufeveu  so  much  as  thinking  of  pro- 
ducing a duplicate  of  herself.” 

“One  has  only  to  say  the  truth  in  a strange  way,”  said 
Charlotte,  “and  at  last  the  strangest  thing  will  seem  to  he 
true.  We  will  select  what  is  good  for  us  out  of  }’Our  obser- 
vations ; and  }’et  as  women  we  will  stick  to  women,  and  do 
common  work  with  them  too,  not  to  give  the  other  sex  too 
great  an  advantage  over  us.  Indeed,  }’ou  must  not  take  it 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


265 


ill  of  us,  if  in  future  we  come  to  feel  a little  malicious  satis- 
faction when  our  lords  and  masters  do  not  get  on  in  the  very 
best  way  together.” 

With  much  care,  this  wise,  sensible  person  went  on  to  ex- 
amine more  closely  how  Ottilie  proceeded  with  her  little  pupils, 
and  expressed  his  decided  approbation  of  it.  “ You  are  quite 
riglit,”  he  said,  “ in  directing  these  children  only  to  what  they 
can  immediately  and  usefully  put  in  practice.  Cleanliness, 
for  instance,  will  accustom  them  to  wear  their  clothes  with 
pleasure  to  themselves  ; and  every  thing  is  gained  if  they  can 
be  induced  to  enter  into  what  they  do  with  cheerfulness  and 
self-reflection.” 

In  other  ways  he  found,  to  his  great  satisfaction,  that 
nothing  had  been  done  for  outward  display,  but  all  was  in- 
ward, and  designed  to  supply  what  was  indispensably  neces- 
saiy.  “In  how  few  words,”  he  cried,  “might  the  whole 
business  of  education  be  summed  up,  if  people  had  but  ears 
to  hear  ! ’ ’ 

“ Will  you  try  whether  I have?  ” said  Ottilie,  smiling. 

“ Indeed  I will,”  answered  he,  “ only  you  must  not  betray 
me.  Educate  the  boys  to  be  servants,  and  the  girls  to  be 
mothers ; and  every  thing  is  as  it  should  be.” 

“To  be  mothers?”  replied  Ottilie.  “Women  would 
scarcely  think  that  sufficient.  They  have  to  look  forward, 
without  being  mothers,  to  going  out  into  service.  And, 
indeed,  our  young  men  think  themselves  a great  deal  too 
good  for  servants.  One  can  see  easily  in  every  one  of  them 
that  he  holds  himself  more  fit  to  be  a master.” 

“And  for  that  reason  we  should  say  nothing  about  it  to 
them,”  said  the  assistant.  “We  insinuate  ourselves  into 
life,  but  life  is  not  insinuating  to  us.  How  many  men 
would  like  to  acknowledge  at  the  outset  what  at  the  end 
they  must  acknowledge  whether  they  like  it  or  not?  But 
let  us  leave  these  considerations,  which  do  not  concern  us 
here. 

“ I consider  you  very  fortunate  in  having  been  able  to  go 
so  methodically  to  work  with  your  pupils.  If  your  jmuugest 
girls  run  about  with  their  dolls,  and  stitch  together  a few 
petticoats  for  them ; if  the  elder  sisters  will  then  take  care 
of  the  younger,  and  the  whole  household  know  how  to  supply 
its  own  wants,  and  one  member  of  it  help  the  others,  — the 
further  step  into  life  will  not  then  be  great ; and  such  a girl 
will  find  in  her  husband  what  she  has  lost  in  her  parents. 

“ But,  among  the  higher  ranks,  the  problem  is  a sorely 


2G6 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


intricate  one.  We  have  to  provide  for  higher,  finer,  more 
delicate  relations,  especially  for  such  as  arise  out  of  society. 
We  are,  therefore,  obliged  to  give  our  pupils  an  outward 
cultivation.  It  is  indispensable,  it  is  necessary ; and  it  may 
be  really  valuable,  if  we  keep  within  bounds.  Only  it  is  so 
easy,  while  one  is  proposing  to  cultivate  the  children  for  a 
wider  circle,  to  drive  them  out  into  the  indefinite,  without 
keeping  before  our  eyes  the  real  requisites  of  the  inner 
nature.  Here  lies  the  problem  which  is  more  or  less  solved 
by  some  educators,  others  failing  to  do  so. 

“ Many  things,  with  which  we  furnish  our  scholars  at  the 
school,  do  not  please  me ; because  ex[>erience  tells  me  of 
how  little  service  they  are  likely  to  be  in  after-life.  It  is 
impossible  to  state  how  much  is  at  once  stripped  off,  how 
much  at  once  committed  to  oblivion,  as  soon  as  the  young 
lady  finds  herself  in  the  position  of  a housewife  or  a mother. 

“In  the  mean  time,  since  I have  devoted  m3’self  to  this 
occupation,  I cannot  but  entertain  a devout  hope  that  one 
da}',  with  the  companionship  of  some  faithful  helpmate,  I 
may  succeed  in  cultivating  purely  in  my  pupils  that,  and  that 
only,  which  they  will  require  when  they  [>ass  out  into  the  field 
of  independent  activity  and  self-reliance  ; that  I may  be  able 
to  say  to  myself,  in  this  sense  is  their  education  completed. 
Another  education  there  is  indeed  which  will  again  speedily 
recommence,  and  work  on  well  nigh  through  all  the  years  of 
our  life,  — the  education  which  circumstances  will  give  us,  if 
we  do  not  give  it  to  ourselves.’’ 

“ How  true  are  these  words ! ’’  thought  Ottilie.  What  a 
great  deal  a passion,  little  dreamed  of  before,  had  done  to 
educate  her  in  the  past  year ! What  trials  she  saw  hover 
before  her  if  she  looked  forward  only  to  what  the  immediate 
future  had  in  store  for  her ! 

It  was  not  without  a purpose  that  the  young  man  had 
spoken  of  a helpmate,  — of  a wife  ; for.  with  all  his  diffidence, 
he  could  not  refrain  from  thus  remotely  hinting  at  his  own 
wishes.  A number  of  circumstances  and  accidents,  indeed, 
combiued  to  induce  him  on  this  visit  to  approach  a few  steps 
towards  his  aim. 

The  lady-siq)erior  of  the  school  was  advanced  in  years. 
She  had  been  already  for  some  time  looking  about  among 
her  fellow-laborers,  male  and  female,  for  some  person  whom 
she  could  take  into  partnership  with  herself,  and  at  last 
had  made  proposals  to  the  assistant,  in  whom  she  had  the 
highest  ground  for  feeling  confidence.  He  was  to  conduct 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


267 


the  business  of  tlie  school  with  herself.  Ho  was  to  work, 
together  with  her,  as  if  it  were  his  own,  and  after  her  death, 
as  her  heir,  to  enter  upon  it  as  sole  proprietor. 

The  principal  thing  now  seemed  to  be,  that  he  should  find 
a wife  who  would  co-operate  with  him.  Ottilie  was  secretly 
before  his  eyes  and  before  his  heart.  A number  of  difiiculties 
suggested  themselves,  and  yet  there  were  favorable  circum- 
stances on  the  other  side  to  counterbalance  them.  Luciana 
had  left  the  school : Ottilie  could  therefore  return  with  the 
less  difficulty.  Of  the  relation  in  which  she  stood  to  Edward, 
some  little  had  transpired.  It  passed,  however,  as  many 
such  things  do,  as  a matter  of  indifference  ; and  this  very 
circumstance  might  make  it  desirable  that  she  should  leave 
the  castle.  And  yet,  perhaps,  no  decision  would  have  been 
arrived  at,  no  step  would  have  been  taken,  had  not  an  un- 
expected visit  given  a special  impulse  to  his  hesitation.  The 
presence,  in  any  and  every  circle,  of  people  of  mark,  can 
never  be  without  its  effects. 

“ The  count  and  the  baroness,  who  often  found  themselves 
asked  for  their  opinion  — almost  everyone  being  in  difficulty 
about  the  education  of  their  children  — as  to  the  value  of  the 
various  schools,  had  found  it  desirable  to  make  themselves 
particularly  acquainted  with  this  one,  which  was  generally  so 
well  spoken  of  ; and,  under  their  present  circumstances,  they 
were  more  easily  able  to  carry  on  these  inquiries  in  company. 

The  baroness,  however,  had  something  else  in  view  as 
well.  While  she  was  last  at  the  castle,  she  had  talked  over 
with  Charlotte  the  whole  affair  of  Edward  and  Ottilie.  She 
had  insisted  again  and  again  that  Ottilie  must  be  sent  away. 
She  tried  every  means  to  encourage  Charlotte  to  do  it,  and 
to  keei)  her  from  being  frightened  by  Edward’s  threats. 
Several  modes  of  escape  from  the  difficulty  were  suggested. 
Accidentally  the  school  was  mentioned,  and  the  assistant 
and  his  incipient  passion,  which  made  the  baroness  more 
resolved  than  ever  to  pay  her  intended  visit  there. 

She  went : she  made  acquaintance  with  the  assistant,  looked 
over  the  establishment,  and  s[X)ke  of  Ottilie.  The  count  also 
spoke  with  much  interest  of  her,  having  in  his  recent  visit 
learned  to  know  her  better.  She  had  approached  him  : indeed, 
she  had  felt  attracted  by  him,  believing  that  she  could  see, 
that  she  could  perceive,  in  his  solid,  substantial  conversation, 
something  to  which  hitherto  she  had  been  an  entire  stranger. 
In  her  intercourse  with  Edward,  tlie  world  had  been  utterly 
forgotten  : in  the  presence  of  the  count,  the  world  appeared 


268 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


first  worth  regarding.  The  attraction  was  mutual.  The 
count  conceived  a liking  for  Ottilie  ; he  would  have  been 
glad  to  have  had  her  for  a daughter.  Thus  a second  time, 
and  worse  tlian  the  first  time,  she  was  in  the  way  of  the 
baroness.  Who  knows  what,  in  times  wlien  passions  ran 
hotter  than  they  do  nowadays,  tliis  lady  might  not  have 
devised  against  her?  Now  she  would  have  l)een  satisfied  if 
she  could  get  her  married,  and  I'cnder  lier  more  innocuous 
for  the  future  to  the  i)eace  of  mind  of  married  women.  She 
therefore  artfully  urged  the  assistant,  in  a delicate,  but  effec- 
tive manner,  to  set  out  on  a little  excursion  to  the  castle, 
where  his  plans  and  his  wishes,  of  which  he  made  no  secret 
to  the  lady,  he  might  forthwith  take  steps  to  realize. 

With  the  fullest  consent  of  the  sui)erior  he  started  off  on 
his  expedition,  and  in  his  heart  he  cherished  much  hopes  of 
success.  He  knew  that  Ottilie  was  not  ill-disposed  towards 
him  ; and  although  it  was  true  there  was  some  (lisi)roportion 
of  rank  between  them,  yet  distinctions  of  this  kind  were  f,ast 
disappearing  in  the  temper  of  the  time.  ^Moreover,  the 
baroness  had  made  him  perceive  clearly  that  Ottilie  must  j| 
always  remain  a poor,  portionless  maiden.  To  be  related  to 
a wealthy  family,  it  was  said,  could  be  of  service  to  nobody.  ! 
F^or,  even  with  the  largest  property,  men  have  a feeling  that 
it  is  not  right  to  deprive  of  any  considerable  sum  those  who, 
as  standing  in  a nearer  degree  of  relationship,  appear  to  have 
a fuller  right  to  possession  ; and  really  it  is  a strange  thing, 
that  the  immense  [)i  ivilege  which  a man  has  of  disposing  of 
his  property  after  his  death,  he  so  very  seldom  uses  for  the 
benefit  of  those  whom  he  lo^  es,  out  of  regard  to  established 
usage  only  appearing  to  consider  those  who  would  inherit 
his  estate  from  him  supposing  he  made  no  will  at  all. 

Thus,  while  on  his  journey,  he  began  to  feel  himself  entirely 
on  a level  with  Ottilie.  A favorable  reception  raised  his 
hopes.  He  found  Ottilie  indeed  not  altogether  so  open  with 
him  as  usual ; but  she  was  considerably  matured,  more  devel- 
oped, and,  if  you  please,  generally  more  conversable  than 
he  had  known  her.  She  was  read}'  to  give  him  the  fullest 
insight  into  many  things  in  any  way  connected  with  his  pro- 
fession ; but,  when  he  attemi)ted  to  api>roach  his  aim.  a cer- 
tain inward  shyness  always  held  him  back. 

Once,  however,  Charlotte  gave  him  an  opportunity  for 
saying  something.  In  Ottilie’s  presence  she  said  to  him, 

“ Well,  now,  you  have  looked  closely  enough  into  everything 
which  is  going  for\yard  in  my  circle.  How  do  you  find  Ottilie  ? 
you  had  better  say  while  she  is  here.” 


ELECTIA^^.  AFFINITIES. 


269 


Hereupon  tlie  assistant  signified,  with  a clear  perception 
and  composed  expression,  that,  in  respect  of  a freer  carriage, 
of  an  easier  manner  in  speaking,  of  a higher  insight  into  the 
things  of  the  world,  which  showed  itself  more  in  actions  than 
in  words,  he  found  Ottilie  much  improved  ; hut  that  he  still 
believed  it  might  be  of  serious  advantage  to  her  if  she  would 
go  back  for  some  little  time  to  the  school,  in  order  methodi- 
cally and  thoroiighl}'  to  make  her  own  forever  what  the  world 
was  only  imparting  to  her  in  fragments  and  pieces,  I'ather 
perplexing  her  than  satisfying  her,  and  often  too  late  to  lie 
of  service.  He  did  not  wish  to  be  prolix  about  it.  Ottilie 
herself  knew  best  how  much  method  and  connection  there 
was  in  the  style  of  instruction  out  of  which,  in  that  case,  she 
would  be  taken. 

Ottilie  could  not  deii}-  this,  but  could  not  avow  what  these 
words  made  her  feel,  because  she  was  hardly  able  to  give  an 
account  of  it  to  herself.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  nothing  in 
the  world  was  disconnected  so  long  as  she  thought  of  the 
one  person  whom  she  loved  ; and  she  could  not  conceive  how, 
without  him,  any  thing  could  be  connected  at  all. 

Charlotte  replied  to  the  proposal  kindly  and  cautiousl}'. 
She  said  that  she  herself,  as  well  as  Ottilie,  had  long  desired 
her  return  to  the  school.  At  that  time,  however,  the  pres- 
ence of  so  dear  a companion  and  helper  had  become  indis- 
pensable to  herself ; still  she  would  offer  no  obstacle  at  some 
future  period,  if  Ottilie  continued  to  wish  it,  to  her  going 
back  there  for  such  a time  as  would  enable  her  to  complete 
what  she  had  begun,  and  to  make  entirely  her  own  what  had 
been  interrupted. 

The  assistant  listened  with  delight  to  this  qualified  assent. 
Ottilie  did  not  venture  to  object,  although  the  very  thought 
made  her  shudder.  Charlotte,  on  her  hand,  only  thought  of 
gaining  time.  She  hoped  that  Edward  would  soon  come  back 
and  find  himself  a hapjry  father ; then  she  was  convinced  all 
would  go  right,  and  one  way  or  another  they  would  be  able 
to  settle  something  for  Ottilie. 

After  an  important  conversation  furnishing  matter  for  re- 
flection to  all  who  have  taken  part  in  it,  there  commonly 
follows  a sort  of  pause,  which  in  appearance  is  like  a general 
embarrassment.  They  wallced  up  and  down  in  the  room. 
The  assistant  turned  over  the  leaves  of  various  books,  and 
came  at  last  on  the  folio  of  engravings  which  had  remained 
lying  there  since  Luciana’s  time.  As  soon  as  he  saw  that  it 
contained  nothing  but  apes,  he  shut  it  up  again. 


270 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


It  may  have  been  tliis,  however,  whicli  gave  occasion  to  a 
conversation  of  which  we  find  traces  in  Ottilie’s  diary. 

FROM  ottilie’s  DIARY. 

“It  is  strange  how  men  can  iiave  the  heart  to  take  such 
pains  with  the  pictures  of  those  hideous  monkeys.  One  lowers 
one’s  self  sufficiently  when  one  looks  at  them  merely  as  ani- 
mals, but  it  is  really  wicked  to  give,  waj-  to  the  inclination 
to  look  for  people  whom  we  know  behind  such  masks.” 


“ It  is  a sure  mark  of  a certain  perverseness  to  take  pleas- 
ure in  caricatures  and  monstrous  faces  and  pygmies.  I have 
to  thank  our  kind  assistant  that  I have  never  been  tormented 
with  natural  history : I could  never  make  myself  at  home 
with  worms  and  beetles.” 


“Just  now  he  acknowledged  to  me,  that  it  was  the  same 
with  him.  ‘ Of  nature,’  he  said.  ‘ we  ought  to  know  nothing 
except  what  is  actually  alive  immediatelv  around  us.  With  > 
the  trees  which  blossom  and  put  out  leaves  and  bear  fruit  in 
our  own  neighborhood,  with  every  shrub  we  pass  b}-,  with 
eveiy  blade  of  grass  on  which  we  tread,  we  stand  in  a real 
relation.  They  are  our  genuine  compatriots.  The  birds 
which  hop  up  and  down  among  our  branches,  which  sing 
among  our  leaves,  belong  to  us : they  speak  to  us  from  oim 
childhood  u[)wards,  and  we  learn  to  understand  their  language. 
But  let  a man  ask  himself  whether  or  not  eveiy  strange  crea- 
ture, torn  out  of  its  natural  environment,  does  not  at  fiist 
sight  make  a sort  of  painful  impression  upon  him,  which  is 
only  deadened  by  custom.  It  is  a mark  of  a motle3^  dissi- 
pated sort  of  life,  to  be  able  to  endure  monke3's  and  parrots 
and  black  people  about  one’s  self.’  ” 


“ Sometimes,  when  a certain  longing  curiosirt'  about  these 
strange  objects  has  come  over  me,  I liaise  enA'ied  the  traveller 
who  sees  such  marvels  in  living,  eveiy-da}^  connection  with 
other  marvels.  But  he,  too,  must  have  become  another  man. 
Palm-trees  will  not  allow  a man  to  wander  among  them  with 
impunity,  and  doubtless  his  tone  of  thinking  becomes  very 
different  in  a laud  where  elephants  and  tigeis  are  at  home.” 


‘ ‘ Only  such  inquirers  into  nature  deseiwe  our  respect,  as 
know  how  to  describe  and  represent  to  us  the  strange,  won- 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


271 


derful  things  they  have  seen  together  with  their  own  locality, 
each  in  its  own  especial  element.  How  I should  enjoy  once 
hearing  Humboldt  talk  ! ’ ’ 

“ A cabinet  of  natural  curiosities  we  may  regard  like  an 
Egyptian  burying-place,  where  the  various  plant-gods  and 
animal-gods  stand  about  embalmed.  It  may  be  well  enough 
for  a priest-caste  to  busy  itself  with  such  things  in  a twilight 
of  mystery : but,  in  general  instruction,  they  have  no  place 
or  business  ; and  we  must  beware  of  them  all  the  more, 
because  what  is 'nearer  to  us,  and  more  valuable,  may  be  so 
easily  thrust  aside  by  them.” 

“ A teacher  who  can  arouse  a feeling  for  one  single  good 
action,  for  one  single  good  poem,  accom[>Iishes  more  than  he 
who  fills  our  memory  with  rows  on  rows  of  natural  objects, 
classified  with  name  and  form.  For  what  is  the  result  of  all 
these,  except  what  we  know  as  well  without  them,  that  the 
human  form  pre-eminently  and  solely  is  made  in  the  image 
and  likeness  of  God  ? ’ ’ 


“ Individuals  may  be  left  to  occupy  themselves  with  what- 
ever amuses  them,  with  whatever  gives  them  pleasure,  what- 
ever they  think  useful ; but  the  proper  study  of  mankind  is 
man.” 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

There  are  but  few  men  who  care  to  occupy  themselves 
with  the  immediate  past.  Either  we  are  forcibly  bound  up 
in  the  present,  or  we  lose  ourselves  in  the  long  gone-by,  and 
seek  back  for  what  is  utterly  lost,  as  if  it  were  possible  to 
summon  it  up  again,  and  rehabilitate  it.  Even  in  great  and 
wealthy  families  who  are  under  many  obligations  to  their 
ancestors,  we  commonly  find  men  remembering  their  grand- 
fathers more  than  their  fathers. 

Such  reflections  as  these  suggested  themselves  to  our 
assistant,  as,  on  one  of  those  beautiful  days  in  which  the 
departing  winter  is  accustomed  to  imitate  the  spring,  he  had 
been  walking  up  and  down  the  gi-eat  old  castle  garden,  and 
admulng  the  tall  avenues  of  the  lindens,  and  the  formal 


272 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


walks  and  flower-beds  wliieh  had  been  laid  out  by  Edward’s 
father.  The  trees  had  thriven  admirably,  aceording  to  the 
design  of  him  who  had  planted  them  ; and  now,  when  they 
ought  to  have  begun  to  l)e  valued  and  enjoyed,  no  one  ever 
spoke  of  them.  Hardly  any  one  even  went  near  them  ; and 
the  interest  and  the  outlay  v/ere  now  directed  to  the  other 
side,  out  into  the  free  and  the  open. 

He  made  some  remarks  about  it  to  Charlotte  on  his  return  : 
she  did  not  take  it  unkindly.  “ While  life  is  sweeping  us 
onward,”  she  replied,  “ we  fancy  that  we  are  acting  out  our 
own  impulses  : we  believe  that  we  choose  ourselves  what  we 
wish  to  do,  and  what  we  wish  to  enjoy.  But,  in  fact,  if  we 
look  at  it  closely,  our  actions  are  no  more  than  the  plans  and 
the  desires  of  the  time  which  we  are  compelled  to  carry  out.” 
“No  doubt,”  said  the  assistant.  “And  who  is  strong 
enough  to  withstand  the  stream  of  what  is  round  him? 
Time  passes  on,  carrying  away  with  it  opinions,  thoughts, 
prejudices,  and  interests.  If  the  youth  of  the  son  falls  in 
the  era  of  revolution,  we  may  feel  assured  that  he  will  haie 
nothing  in  common  with  his  father.  If  the  father  lived  at 
a time  when  the  desire  was  to  accumulate  property,  to  secure 
the  possession  of  it,  to  narrow  and  to  gather  one’s  self  iu, 
and  to  base  one’s  enjoyment  in  separation  from  the  world, 
the  son  will  at  once  seek  to  extend  his  sphere,  to  communi- 
cate himself  to  others,  to  spread  himself  over  a wide  surface, 
and  open  out  his  closed  stores.” 

“Entire  i)eriods,”  replied  Charlotte,  “resemble  this 
father  and  son  whom  you  have  been  describing.  Of  the 
state  of  things  when  every  little  town  was  obliged  to  have 
its  walls  and  moats,  when  the  castle  of  the  nobleman  was 
built  in  a swamp,  and  the  smallest  manor-houses  were  only 
accessible  by  a draw-bridge,  we  are  scarcely  able  to  form  a 
conception.  In  our  days,  large  cities  take  down  theii' walls ; 
the  moats  of  the  princes’  castles  are  lilled  iu ; cities  arc 
nothing  else  than  large  hamlets  ; and,  when  one  travels  and 
sees  all  this,  he  might  fancy  that  universal  peace  has  been 
established,  and  that  the  golden  age  was  at  hand.  No  one 
feels  himself  easy  in  a garden  which  does  not  look  like  the 
open  country.  There  must  be  nothing  to  remind  hun  of 
form  and  constraint ; we  choose  to  be  entirely  free,  and  to 
draw  a breath  without  sense  of  confinement.  Do  you  con- 
ceive it  possible,  my  friend,  that  we  can  ever  return  again 
out  of  this  into  another,  into  our  former,  condition?” 

“Why  not?”  replied  the  assistant.  “Every  condition 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


273 


has  its  burden,  the  most  relaxed  as  well  as  the  most  con- 
strained. The  fonner  presupposes  abundance,  and  leads  to 
extravagance.  Let  want  re-appear,  and  the  spirit  of  mod- 
eration is  at  once  with  us  again.  Men  who  are  obliged  to 
make  use  of  their  space  and  their  soil,  will  speedily  enough 
raise  walls  up  round  their  gardens  to  be  sure  of  their  crops 
and  plants.  Out  of  this  will  arise  bj'  degi'ees  a new  phase 
of  things  : the  useful  will  again  gain  the  upper  hand,  and 
even  the  man  of  large  possessions  will  feel  at  last  that  he 
must  make  the  most  of  all  that  belongs  to  him.  Believe 
me,  it  is  quite  possible  that  your  son  may  become  indiffer- 
ent to  all  which  you  have  been  doing  in  the  park,  and  draw 
in  again  behind  the  solemn  walls  and  the  tall  lindens  of  his 
grandfather.” 

The  secret  pleasure  it  gave  Charlotte  to  have  a son  fore- 
told to  her,  made  her  forgive  the  assistant  his  somewhat 
unfriendly  prophecy  as  to  how  her  lovely,  beautiful  park 
might  one  day  fare.  She  tlierefore  answered  without  any 
discomposure,  “You  and  I are  not  old  enough  yet  to  have 
lived  through  veiy  much  of  these  contradictious  ; and  yet 
when  I recall  my  early  youth,  when  I remember  the  com- 
plaints I used  to  hear  from  older  people,  and  when  I think 
at  the  same  time  of  what  the  country  and  the  town  then 
were,  I have  nothing  to  advance  against  what  you  say. 
But  is  there  nothing  which  one  can  do  to  remedy  this  natural 
course  of  things?  Are  father  and  sou,  parents  and  children, 
to  be  always  thus  unable  to  understand  each  other?  You 
have  been  so  kind  as  to  prophesy  a boy  to  me.  Is  it  neces- 
sary that  he  must  stand  in  contradiction  to  his  father?  Must 
he  destroy  what  his  parents  have  erected,  instead  of  com- 
pleting it,  instead  of  following  up  the  same  idea  and  ele- 
vating it?  ” 

“ There  is  a rational  remedy  for  it,”  replied  the  assistant, 
“hut  it  is  only  seldom  put  in  practice.  The  father  should 
raise  his  son  to  a joint  ownership  with  himself.  He  should 
permit  him  to  [)lant  and  to  build,  and  allow  him  the  same 
innocent  liberty  which  he  allows  to  himself.  One  form  of 
activity  may  be  woven  into  another,  but  it  cannot  be  pieced 
on  to  it.  A young  shoot  may  be  readily  and  easily  grafted 
with  an  old  stem,  to  which  no  grown  branch  admits  of  being 
fastened.” 

Tlie  assistant  was  glad  to  have  had  the  opportunity,  at  the 
moment  when  he  saw  himself  obliged  to  take  his  leave,  of 
having  said  something  agreeable  to  Charlotte,  and  thus  se- 


274 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


cure  her  favor  afresh.  He  had  been  already  too  long 
absent  from  home ; and  yet  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind 
to  return  there,  until  after  a full  conviction  that  he  must 
allow  the  approaching  epoch  of  Charlotte’s  confinement  first 
to  pass  by,  before  he  could  look  for  any  decision  from  her 
in  respect  to  Ottilie.  He  therefore  accommodated  himself  to 
the  circumstances,  and  returned  to  the  superior  with  these 
prospects  and  hopes. 

Charlotte’s  confinement  was  now  approaching : she  kept  i 
more  in  her  own  room.  The  ladies  who  had  gathered  about  ! 
her  were  her  closest  companions.  Ottilie  managed  all  domes-  'j 
tic  matters,  hardly  able,  however,  the  while,  to  think  of  what  j 
she  was  doing.  She  had  indeed  utterly  resigned  herself : she  >j 
desired  to  continue  to  exert  herself  to  the  extent  of  her  | 
power  for  Charlotte,  for  the  child,  for  Edward.  But  she 
could  not  see  how  it  would  be  possible  for  her.  Nothing  could  ; 
save  her  from  utter  distraction,  except  to  do  the  duty  each  1 
day  brought  with  it. 

A son  was  brought  happily  into  the  world  ; and  the  ladies 
declared,  with  one  voice,  it  was  the  very  image  of  its 
father.  Only  Ottilie,  as  she  wished  the  new  mother  joy,  and 
kissed  the  child  with  all  her  heart,  was  unable  to  see  the  like- 
ness. Once  already  Charlotte  had  felt  most  painfully  the 
absence  of  her  husband,  when  she  ha,d  to  make  preparations 
for  her  daughter’s  marriage.  And  now  the  father  could 
not  be  present  at  the  birth  of  his  sou.  He  could  not  have 
the  choosing  of  the  name  by  which  the  child  was  hereafter  to 
be  called. 

The  first  among  all  Charlotte’s  friends  who  came  to  wish 
her  joy  was  Mittler.  He  had  placed  expresses  ready  to  bring 
him  news  the  instant  the  event  took  place.  He  made  his 
appearance,  and  was  scarcely  able  to  conceal  his  triumph, 
even  before  Ottilie ; when  alone  with  Charlotte,  he  gave  ut- 
terance to  it,  and  wms  at  once  read}'  with  means  to  remove 
all  anxieties,  and  set  aside  all  immediate  difficulties.  The 
baptism  should  not  be  delayed  a day  longer  than  necessary. 
The  old  clergyman,  who  had  one  foot  already  m the  grave, 
should  leave  his  blessing,  to  bind  together  the  past  and  the 
future.  The  child  was  to  be  called  Otto  ; what  name  could 
he  bear  so  fitly  as  that  of  his  father  and  of  his  father’s 
friend? 

It  required  the  peremptory  resolution  of  this  man  to  set 
aside  the  innumerable  considerations,  arguments,  hesitations, 
difficulties ; what  this  person  knew,  and  tliat  person  knew 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


275 


better;  the  opinions,  np  and  down,  and  backwards  and  for- 
wards, which  every  friend  volunteered.  It  always  happens 
on  such  occasions,  that,  when  one  inconvenience  is  removed,  a 
new  one  seems  to  arise  ; and,  in  wishing  to  spare  all  sides, 
we  inevitably  go  wrong  on  one  side  or  the  ottier. 

The  letters  to  friends  and  relations  were  all  undertaken  by 
Mittler,  and  they  were  to  be  written  and  sent  off  at  once.  It 
was  highly  necessary,  he  thought,  that  the  good  fortune,  which 
he  considered  so  important  for  the  family,  should  be  known 
as  widely  as  possible  through  the  ill-natured  and  misinterpret- 
ing world.  For,  indeed,  these  late  entanglements  and  perplexi- 
ties had  got  abroad  ; people,  at  all  times,  holding  the  conviction 
that  whatever  happens,  happens  only  in  order  that  they  may 
have  something  to  talk  about. 

The  ceremony  of  the  baptism  was  to  be  observed  with  all 
due  honor,  but  it  was  to  be  as  brief  and  as  private  as  possible. 
The  people  came  together ; Ottilie  and  Mittler  were  to  hold 
the  child  as  sponsors.  The  old  pastor,  supported  by  the 
servants  of  the  church,  came  in  with  slow  steps  : the  prayers 
were  offered.  The  boy  lay  in  Ottilie’ s arms  : and,  as  she  was 
looking  affectionately  down  at  him,  he  opened  his  eyes  ; and 
she  was  not  a little  startled  when  she  seemed  to  see  her  own 
eyes  looking  at  her.  The  likeness  would  have  surprised  any 
one.  Mittler,  who  next  had  to  receive  the  child,  started  as 
well ; he  fancying  he  saw  in  the  little  features  a most  strik- 
ing likeness  to  the  captain.  He  had  never  seen  a resemblance 
so  marked. 

The  infirmity  of  the  good  old  clergyman  had  not  permitted 
him  to  accompany  the  ceremony  with  more  than  the  usual 
liturgy. 

Mittler,  however,  who  was  full  of  his  subject,  remembered 
his  former  performances  when  he  had  been  in  the  ministry  ; and 
indeed,  it  was  one  of  his  peculiarities,  that,  on  every  sort  of 
occasion,  he  always  thought  what  he  would  like  to  say,  and 
what  expressions  he  would  use. 

At  this  time  he  was  the  less  able  to  contain  himself,  as  he 
was  now  in  the  midst  of  a circle  consisting  entirely  of  well- 
known  friends.  He  began,  therefore,  towards  the  conclusion 
of  the  service,  to  put  himself  quietly  into  the  place  of  the  cler- 
gyman ; m a funny  manner  to  speak  of  his  duties  and  hopes 
as  godfather,  and  to  dwell  all  the  longer  on  the  subject,  as  he 
thought  he  saw,  in  Charlotte’s  gratified  look,  that  she  was 
pleased  with  his  doing  so. 

It  altogether  escaped  the  eagerness  of  the  orator,  that 


276 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


the  good  old  man  would  gladly  have  sat  down ; still  less 
did  he  tliink  that  he  was  on  the  way  to  occasion  a more  serious 
evil.  After  he  had  emphatically  dwelt  upon  the  relation  in 
which  every  person  present  stood  toward  the  child,  thereby 
putting  Ottilie’s  composure  sorely  to  the  proof,  he  turned  at 
last  to  the  old  man  with  the  words,  ’‘And  j'ou,  my  worthy 
father,  you  may  now  well  say  with  Simeon,  ‘ Lord,  now  lettest 
thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace  ; for  mine  eyes  have  seen  the 
saviour  of  this  house.’  ” 

He  was  now  in  full  swing  towards  a brilliant  peroration, 
when  he  perceived  the  old  man,  to  whom  he  held  out  the 
child,  first  appear  a little  to  incline  towards  it,  and  imme- 
diately after  to  totter  and  sink  backward.  Hardly  prevented 
from  falling,  he  was  lifted  to  a seat ; but,  notwithstanding  the 
instant  assistance  which  was  rendered,  he  was  found  to  be 
dead. 

To  see  thus  side  by  side  birth  and  death,  the  coffin  and  the 
cradle,  to  see  them  and  to  realize  them,  to  comprehend,  not 
with  the  eye  of  imagination,  but  with  the  bodily  eye,  at  one 
moment  these  fearful  opposites,  was  a hard  trial  to  the 
spectators  ; the  harder,  the  more  utterly  it  had  taken  them 
by  surprise.  Ottilie  alone  stood  contemplating  the  slum- 
berer,  whose  features  still  retained  their  gentle,  sweet  expres- 
sion, with  a kind  of  envju  The  life  of  her  soul  was  extinct: 
why  should  the  bodily  life  any  longer  drag  on  in  weari- 
ness ? 

But  though  Ottilie.  was  frequently  led  by  melancholy  inci- 
dents which  occurred  in  the  day,  to  think  of  the  past,  of 
separation  and  of  loss,  at  night  she  had  strange  visions  given 
her  to  comfort  her,  which  assured  her  of  the  existence  of 
her  beloved,  and  thus  gave  her  strength  for  her  own  life. 
When  she  laid  herself  down  at  night  to  rest,  and  was  float- 
ing among  sweet  sensations  between  sleep  and  waking,  she 
seemed  to  lie  looking  into  a clear  but  softly  illuminated 
space.  In  this  she  would  see  Edward  with  the  greatest  dis- 
tinctness, and  not  in  the  dress  in  which  she  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  see  him,  but  in  military  uniform  ; never  in  the 
same  position,  but  always  in  a natural  one,  and  with  nothing 
fantastic  about  him,  either  standing  or  wallving,  or  lying  or 
riding.  The  figure,  which  was  painted  with  the  utmost 
minuteness,  moved  readily  before  her  without  any  effort  of 
hers,  without  her  willing  it  or  exerting  hei’  imagination  to 
produce  it.  F'requentl}'  she  saw  him  surrounded  with  some- 
thing in  motion,  which  was  darker  than  the  bright  ground; 


elp:ctive  affinities. 


277 


Init  the  figures  were  shadowy,  and  slie  could  scarcely  distin- 
guish them,  — sometimes  they  were  like  meu,  sometimes  tliey 
were  like  horses,  or  like  trees,  or  like  mountains.  Slie 
usually  went  to  sleep  in  the  midst  of  the  apparition  ; and 
when,  after  a quiet  night,  she  woke  again  in  the  morning, 
she  felt  refreshed  and  comforted  : she  could  say  to  herself, 
“ Edward  still  lives  ; ” and  she  herself  was  still  remaining  in 
the  closest  relation  towards  him. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Spring  had  come  : it  was  late,  but  it  therefore  burst  out 
more  rapidly  and  more  exhilaratingly  than  usual.  Ottilie 
now  found  in  the  garden  the  fruits  of  her  carefulness.  Every 
thing  was  germinating,  and  came  out  in  leaf  and  flower  at 
its  proper  time.  A number  of  plants,  which  she  had  been 
training  up  under  glass  frames  and  in  hotbeds,  now  burst 
forward  at  once  to  meet,  at  last,  the  advances  of  nature  ; 
and  whatever  there  was  to  do,  and  to  take  care  of,  it  did  not 
remain  the  mere  labor  of  hope  which  it  had  been,  but  brought 
its  reward  in  immediate  and  substantial  enjoyment. 

Many  a gap  among  the  finest  shoots  had  been  produced 
by  Luciana’s  wild  ways,  for  which  she  had  to  console  the 
gardener  ; and  the  symmetry  of  many  a leaf}'  crown  destroj’cd. 
She  tried  to  encourage  him  to  hope  that  it  would  all  be  soon 
restored  again  ; but  he  had  too  deep  a feeling,  and  too  pure 
an  idea  of  the  nature  of  his  business,  for  such  grounds  of 
comfort  to  be  of  much  service  with  him.  Little  as  the  gar- 
dener allowed  himself  to  have  his  attention  scattered  by  other 
‘ tastes  and  inclinations,  he  could  the  less  bear  to  have  the 
peaceful  course  interrupted  which  the  plant  follows  towards 
its  enduring  or  its  transient  perfection.  A plant  is  like  a^ 
I self-willed  man,  out  of  whom  we  can  obtain  all  we  desire  if 
f we  will  only  treat  him  his  own  way.  A calm  eye,  a silent 
I method,  in  all  seasons  of  the  year,  and  at  every  hour,  to  do 
exactl}"  what  has  then  to  be  done,  is  required  of  no  one  per- 
! haps  more  than  of  a gardener.  These  qualities  the  good 
■ man  possessed  in  an  eminent'  degree,  and  on  that  account 
Ottilie  liked  so  well  to  work  together  with  him  ; but  for  some 
\ time  past  he  had  not  found  himself  able  to  exercise  his 


278 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


peculiar  talent  with  any  pleasure  to  himself.  "Whatever 
concerned  tlie  fruit-gardening  or  kitelien-gardening,  as  well 
as  whatever  had  in  time  past  been  required  in  the  ornamental 
gardens,  lie  understood  iierfectly.  One  man  succeeds  in  one 
thing,  another  in  another : he  succeeded  in  these.  In  his 
management  of  the  orangery,  of  the  bulbous  flowers,  in 
budding  shoots  and  growing  cuttings  from  the  carnations 
and  auriculas,  he  might  challenge  Nature  herself.  But  the 
new  ornamental  shrubs  and  fashionable  flowers  remained  in 
a measure  strange  to  him.  He  had  a kind  of  shyness  of  the 
endless  field  of  botany,  which  had  been  lately  opening  itself ; 
and  the  strange  names  humming  about  his  ears  made  him 
cross  and  ill-tempered.  The  orders  for  flowers  which  had 
been  made  by  his  lord  and  lady  in  the  course  of  the  past 
year,  he  considered  so  much  useless  waste  and  extravagance.  i 
All  the  more,  as  he  saw  manj'  valuable  iilants  disappear ; | 

and  as  he  had  ceased  to  stand  on  the  best  possible  terms  i 

with  the  nursery  gardeners,  who  he  fancied  had  not  been  i 
serving  him  honestly. 

Consequently,  after  a number  of  attempts,  he  had  formed  | 
a sort  of  a plan,  in  which  Ottilie  encouraged  him  the  more 
readily  because  its  first  essential  condition  was  the  return  of 
Edward,  whose  absence  in  this,  as  in  many  other  matters, 
every  daj’  had  to  be  felt  more  and  more  serioushx 

Now  that  the  plants  were  striking  new  roots,  and  putting 
forth  shoots,  Ottilie  felt  herself  even  more  fettered  to  this  i 
spot.  It  was  just  a year  since  she  had  come  there  as  a 
stranger,  as  a mere  insignificant  creature.  How  much  had 
she  not  gained  for  herself  since  that  time  ! but.  alas  ! how 
much  had  she  not  also  since  that  time  lost  again  ! Never 
had  she  been  so  rich,  and  never  so  poor.  The  feelings  of 
her  loss  and  of  her  gain  alternated  momentarily,  ehasiug  each 
other  through  her  heart : and  she  could  find  no  other  means 
to  help  herself,  exceiit  always  to  set  to  work  again  at  what 
lay  nearest  to  her,  with  such  interest  and  eagerness  as  she 
could  command. 

That  every  thing  she  knew  to  be  dear  to  Edward  received 
especial  care  from  her.  may  be  supposed.  And  why  should 
she  not  hope  that  he  himself  would  now  soon  come  back 
again  ; and  that,  when  present,  he  would  show  himself  grateful 
for  all  the  care  and  pains  which  she  had  taken  for  him  in  his 
absence  ? 

But  there  was  also  a far  different  employment  which  she 
took  upon  herself  in  his  service  : she  had  undertaken  the 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


279 


principal  charge  of  the  child,  whose  nurse  it  was  all  the 
easier  for  her  to  be,  as  they  had  determined  not  to  put  it  into 
the  hands  of  a wet-nurse,  but  to  bring  it  up  by  hand  with 
milk  and  water.  In  the  beautiful  season  it  was  much  out  of 
doors,  enjoying  the  free  air  ; and  Ottilie  liked  best  to  take  it 
out  herself,  to  carry  the  unconscious  sleeping  infant  among 
the  flowers  and  blossoms  which  should  one  day  smile  so 
brightly  on  its  childhood, — among  the  young  shrubs  and 
plants,  which,  by  their  youth,  seemed  designed  to  grow  up 
with  the  young  lord  to  their  after  stature.  When  she  looked 
about  her,  she  did  not  hide  from  herself  to  what  a high 
position  that  child  was  born : far  and  wide,  wherever  the 
eye  could  see,  all  would  one  day  belong  to  him.  How  desira- 
ble, how  necessary,  it  must  therefore  be,  that  it  should  grow 
up  under  the  eyes  of  its  father  and  its  mother,  and  renew 
and  strengthen  the  union  between  them  ! 

Ottilie  saw  all  this  so  clearly,  that  she  represented  it  to 
herself  as  conclusively  decided  ; and  for  herself,  as  concerned 
with  it,  she  never  felt  at  all.  Under  this  clear  sky,  in  this 
bright  sunshine,  at  once  it  became  clear  to  her,  that  her  love, 
if  it  would  perfect  itself,  must  become  altogether  unselfish ; 
and  there  were  many  moments  in  wdiich  she  believed  it  was  an 
elevation  which  she  had  already  attained.  ,She  only  desired 
the  well-being  of  her  friend.  She  fancied  herself  able  to 
resign  him,  and  never  to  see  him  any  more,  if  she  could  only 
know  that  he  was  happy.  The  one  only  determination  she 
formed  for  herself  was,  never  to  belong  to  another. 

They  had  taken  care  that  the  autumn  should  be  no  less 
brilliant  than  the  spring.  Sunflowers  were  there,  and  all 
the  other  plants  which  never  cease  blossoming  in  autumn, 
and  continue  boldly  on  into  the  cold  ; asters  especially  were 
sown  in  the  greatest  abundance,  and  scattered  about  in  all 
directions,  to  form  a starry  heaven  upon  the  earth 

FROM  OTTILIF.’s  DIARV. 

“ Any  good  thought  we  have  read,  any  thing  striking  we 
have  heard,  we  commonly  enter  in  our  diary  ; but  if  we 
would  take  the  trouble,  at  the  same  time,  to  mark,  of  our 
friends’  letters,  the  remarkable  observations,  the  original 
ideas,  the  hasty  words  so  pregnant  in  meaning,  which  we 
might  find  in  them,  we  should  then  be  rieh  indeed.  IVe  lay 
aside  letters  never  to  read  them  again,  and  at  last  we  destroy 
them  out  of  discretion  ; and  so  disappears  the  most  beautiful. 


280 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


the  most  immediate,  breath  of  life,  irrecoverably  for  our- 
selves and  for  others.  I intend  to  make  amends  in  future 
for  such  neglect.”  

“ So,  then,  once  more  the  old  story  of  the  year  is  being 
repeated  over  again.  We  are  come  now,  thank  God,  again 
to  its  most  charming  chapter ! The  violets  and  the  may- 
flowers  are  as  its  superscriptions  and  its  vignettes.  It  always 
makes  a pleasant  imiiression  on  us  when  we  open  again  at 
these  pages  in  the  book  of  life.” 


“ We  find  fault  with  the  poor,  particularly  with  the  little 
ones  among  them,  when  they  loiter  about  the  streets  and  beg. 
Do  we  not  observe  that  they  begin  to  work  again,  as  soon  as 
ever  there  is  an}'  thing  for  them  to  do?  Hardly  has  Nature 
unfolded  her  smiling  treasures,  than  the  children  are  at  once 
upon  her  track  to  open  out  a calling  for  themselves.  Not 
one  of  them  is  begging  any  longer  : they  have  each  a nosegay 
to  offer  you  ; they  were  out  and  gathering  it  before  you  had 
awakened  out  of  your  sleep,  and  tlie  supplicating  face  looks 
as  sweetly  at  you  as  the  present  which  the  hand  is  holding 
out.  No  person  ever  looks  miserable  who  feels  that  he  has 
a right  to  make  a demand  upon  you.” 


“How  is  it  that  the  year  sometimes  seems  so  short,  and 
sometimes  is  so  long  ? How  is  it  that  it  is  so  short  when  it 
is  iiassing,  and  so  long  as  we  look  back  over  it?  When  I 
tlrink  of  the  past  (and  it  never  comes  so  powerfully  over  me 
as  in  tlie  garden),  I feel  how  the  perishing  and  the  enduring 
work  one  upon  the  other  ; and  there  is  nothing  whose  endur- 
ance is  so  brief  as  not  to  leave  behind  it  some  trace  of  itself, 
something  in  its  own  likeness.” 


“ We  are  able  to  tolerate  the  winter.  We  fancy  that  we 
can  extend  ourselves  more  freely  when  the  trees  are  so  spec- 
tral, so  transparent.  They  are  nothing,  but  they  conceal 
nothing  ; but  when  once  the  germs  and  buds  begin  to  show, 
then  we  become  impatient  for  the  full  foliage  to  come  out, 
for  the  landscape  to  juit  on  its  body,  and  the  tree  to  stand 
before  us  as  a form.” 


“Everything  which  is  perfect  in  its  kind  must  pass  out 
beyond  and  transcend  its  kind.  It  must  be  an  inimitable 
something  of  another  and  a higher  nature.  In  many  of  its 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


281 


tones  the  nightingale  is  only  a bird ; then  it  rises  up  above 
its  class,  and  seems  as  if  it  would  teach  every  feathered 
creature  what  singing  really  is.” 


“ A life  without  love,  without  the  presence  of  the  beloved, 
is  but  poor  comedie  a tiroir.  We  draw  out  slide  after  slide, 
swiftlj^  tiring  of  each,  and  pushing  it  back  to  make  haste  to 
the  next.  Even  what  we  know  to  be  good  and  important 
hangs  but  wearily  together : every  step  is  an  end,  and  every 
step  is  a fresh  beginning.” 


CHAPTER  X. 

Charlotte  meanwhile  was  well  and  in  good  spirits.  She 
was  happy  in  her  beautiful  boy,  whose  fair-promising  little 
form  every  hour  was  a delight  to  both  her  eyes  and  heart. 
In  him  she  found  a new  liuk  to  connect  her  with  the  world 
and  with  her  property.  Her  former  activity  began  anew  to 
stir  in  her  again. 

Whichever  way  she  looked,  she  saw  how  much  had  been 
done  in  tlie  year  that  was  past : and  it  was  a pleasure  to  her 
to  contemplate  it.  Enlivened  by  the  strength  of  these  feel- 
ings, she  climbed  up  to  the  summer-house  with  Ottilie  and 
the  child : and  as  she  laid  the  latter  down  on  the  little  table, 
as  on  the  altar  of  her  house,  and  saw  the  two  seats  still 
vacant,  she  thought  of  goue-by  times  ; and  fresh  hopes  rose 
out  before  her  for  herself  and  for  Ottilie. 

Young  ladies,  perhaps,  look  timidly  round  them  at  this  or 
that  J'oung  man,  carrying  on  a silent  examination,  whether 
they  would  like  to  have  him  for  a husband ; but  whoever  has 
a daughter  or  a female  ward  to  care  for,  takes  a wider  circle 
iu  her  survey.  And  so  it  fared  at  this  moment  with  Char- 
lotte, to  whom,  as  she  thought  of  how  they  had  once  sat  side 
by  side  in  that  summer-house,  a union  did  not  seem  impossi- 
ble between  the  captain  and  Ottilie.  It  had  not  remained 
unknown  to  her,  that  the  plans  for  the  advantageous  mar- 
riage, which  had  been  proposed  to  the  captain,  had  come  to 
nothing. 

Charlotte  went  on  up  the  cliff,  and  Ottilie  carried  the  child. 
A number  of  reflections  crowded  upon  the  former.  Even  on 


282 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


the  firm  land  there  are  frequent  enough  shipwrecks ; and  the 
true  wise  couduct  is  to  recover  ourselves,  and  refit  our  vessel 
as  fast  as  possible.  Is  life  to  be  calculated  only  by  its  gains 
and  losses?  AVho  has  not  made  arrangement  on  arrange- 
ment, and  has  not  seen  them  disturl)ed?  How  often  does 
not  a man  strike  into  a road,  and  lose  it  again  ! How  often 
are  we  not  turned  aside  from  one  point  which  we  had  sharply 
before  our  eye,  but  only  to  reach  some  higher  stage  ! The 
traveller,  to  his  greatest  annoyance,  breaks  a wheel  upon  his 
journey,  and  through  this  unpleasant  accident  makes  some 
charming  acquaintance,  and  forms  some  new  connection, 
which  has  an  influence  on  all  his  life.  Destinj-  grants  us  our 
wishes,  but  in  its  own  way,  in  order  to  give  us  something 
beyond  our  wishes. 

Among  these  and  similar  reflections  thev  readied  the  new 
building  on  the  hill,  where  they  intended  to  establish  them- 
sches  for  the  summer.  The  ^iew  all  round  tliem  was  far 
more  beautiful  than  could  have  been  supposed  : every  little  j 
obstruction  had  been  removed  ; all  the  loveliness  of  the  land- 
scape. Avhatever  nature,  whatever  the  season  of  the  year,  liad  | 
done  for  it,  came  out  in  its  beauty  before  the  e^'c  ; and  alread\' 
the  3'Oiing  plantations,  which  had  been  made  to  fill  up  a few 
openings,  were  beginning  to  look  green,  and  to  form  an 
agreeable  connecting-link  between  parts  which  before  stood 
sejiarate.  ' 

The  house  itself  was  nearl}’  habitable : the  views,  par-  i 
ticularlv  from  the  upper  rooms,  were  of  the  richest  variety. 

Tlie  longer  jmu  looked  round  you,  the  more  beauties  j'ou 
discovered.  What  magnificent  eflects  would  be  produced 
here  at  the  different  hours  of  day,  — by  sunlight  and  by  moon- 
light ! Nothing  could  be  more  delightful  than  to  come  and 
live  there  ; and,  now  that  she  found  all  the  rough  work  finished, 
Charlotte  longed  to  be  busy  again.  An  upholsterer,  a tapestry- 
hanger,  a painter  who  could  lay  on  the  colors  with  patterns 
and  a little  gilding,  were  all  which  were  required  : and  these  » 
were  soon  found,  and  in  a short  time  the  building  was  com-  i 
pleted.  Kitchen  and  cellar  stores  were  quickly  laid  in : 3 

being  so  far  from  the  castle,  it  was  necessary'  to  ha\'e  all 
essentials  provided,  and  the  two  ladies  with  the  child  went 
up  and  settled  there.  From  this  residence,  as  from  a new 
centre,  unknown  walks  opened  out  to  them  ; and  in  these 
high  regions  the  free,  fresh  air  and  the  beautiful  weather  were 
thoroughly  delightful. 

Ottilie’s  favorite  walk,  sometimes  alone,  sometimes  with 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


283 


the  child,  was  down  below  towards  the  plane-trees,  along  a 
pleasant  footpath  leading  directlj'  to  the  point  where  one  of 
the  boats  was  kept  chained  in  which  peoi)le  used  to  go  across 
the  water.  She  often  took  pleasure  in  a sail  on  the  water, 
but  without  tlie  child,  as  Charlotte  was  a little  uneasj'  about 
it.  She  never  missed,  however,  paying  a daily  visit  to  the 
castle  garden  and  the  gardener,  and  going  to  look  with  him 
at  his  show  of  gTeenhouse-plauts,  which  were  all  out  now, 
enjoying  the  free  air. 

At  this  beautiful  season,  Charlotte  was  much  pleased  to 
receive  a visit  from  an  English  nobleinan,  who  had  made 
Edward’s  acquaintance  abroad,  having  met  him  more  than 
once,  and  who  was  now  curious  to  see  the  laying  out  of  his 
park,  which  he  had  heard  so  much  admired.  He  brought 
with  him  a letter  of  introduction  from  the  count,  and  intro- 
duced at  the  same  time  his  travelling  conq)anion,  a quiet  but 
most  agreeable  man.  He  went  about  seeing  eveiy  thing, 
sometimes  with  Charlotte  and  Ottilie,  sometimes  with  the 
gardeners  and  the  foresters,  often  with  his  friend,  and  now 
and  then  alone  ; and  they  could  perceive  clearl}^  from  his 
observations,  that  he  took  an  interest  in  such  matters,  and 
understood  them  well,  indeed,  that  he  had  himself  probably 
executed  many  such. 

Although  he  was  now  advanced  in  life,  he  entered  warmly 
into  every  thing  which  could  serve  for  an  ornament  to  life, 
or  contribute  any  thing  to  its  imiiortance. 

In  his  presence  the  ladies  came  first  properly  to  enjoy 
what  was  round  them.  His  practised  eye  received  every 
eflect  in  its  freshness  ; and  he  found  all  the  more  pleasure  in 
what  was  before  him,  as  he  had  not  previously  known  the 
place,  and  was  scarcely  able  to  distinguish  what  man  had 
done  there  from  what  nature  had  pro^•ided. 

"VVe  may  even  say,  that,  through  his  remarks,  the  park  grew 
and  enriched  itself:  he  was  able  to  anticipate  in  their  fulfil- 
ment the  promises  of  the  growing  plantations.  There  was 
not  a spot  where  there  was  any  etfeet  which  could  be  either 
heightened  or  produced,  but  what  he  observed  it. 

In  one  place  he  pointed  to  a fountain,  which,  if  it  should  be 
cleaned  out,  promised  to  be  the  most  beautiful  spot  for  a picnic- 
party.  In  another,  to  a cave  which  had  only  to  be  enlarged 
and  svt’ept  clear  of  rubbish  to  form  a desirable  seat.  A few 
trees  might  be  cut  dowu,  and  a view  would  be  opened  from 
it  of  some  grand  masses  of  rock  towering  magnificently 
against  the  sky.  He  wished  the  owners  joy  that  so  much 


284 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


was  still  remaining  for  them  to  do  ; and  he  besought  them  not 
to  be  in  a hurry  about  it,  but  to  keep  for  themselves  for  j'ears 
to  come  the  pleasures  of  shaping  and  improving. 

At  the  hours  the  ladies  usually  spent  alone,  he  was  never 
in  the  wa}’ ; for  he  was  occupied  the  greatest  part  of  the  day 
in  catching,  in  a portable  camera  obscura,  such  views  in  tlie 
park  as  would  make  good  paintings,  and  drawing  from  them, 
in  order  to  secure  some  desirable  result  from  his  travels  for 
himself  and  others.  For  many  years  past  he  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  doing  this  in  all  remarkable  places  which  he  visited, 
and  had  provided  himself  by  it  with  a most  charming  and 
interesting  collection.  He  showed  the  ladies  a large  port- 
folio which  he  had  brought  with  him,  and  entertained  them 
with  the  pictures  and  with  descrii)tions.  And  it  was  a real 
delight  to  them,  here  in  their  solitude,  to  travel  so  pleasantly 
over  the  world,  and  see  sweep  past  them  shores  and  havens, 
mountains,  lakes,  and  rivers,  cities,  castles,  and  a hundred 
other  localities  which  have  a name  in  history. 

Each  of  the  two  ladies  had  an  especial  interest  in  it : 
Charlotte  the  more  general  interest  in  whatever  was  histori- 
cally remarkable  ; Ottilie  dwelling  in  preference  on  the  scenes 
of  which  Edward  used  most  to  talk,  — where  he  liked  best  to 
sta}%  and  which  he  would  most  often  revisit.  Every  man  has 
somewhere,  far  or  near,  his  peculiar  localities  which  attract  ; 
him  : scenes  which,  according  to  his  character,  either  from  first 
impressions,  or  from  particular  associations,  or  from  habit, 
have  a charm  for  him  bej’ond  all  others. 

She  therefore  asked  the  earl  which  of  all  these  places  i 
pleased  him  best,  where  he  would  like  to  take  up  his  abode 
if  he  might  choose.  There  was  more  than  one  lovely  spot 
which  he  pointed  out,  with  what  had  happened  to  him  there 
to  make  him  love  and  value  it ; and  the  peculiar  accentuated 
French  in  which  he  spoke  made  it  most  pleasant  to  listen  to 
him. 

To  the  question,  which  was  his  ordinary  residence,  which 
he  properly  considered  his  home,  he  replied,  without  any  hesi- 
tation, in  a manner  quite  unexpected  I)}’  the  ladies, — 

“I  have  accustomed  myself  by  this  time  to  be  at  home 
everywhere  ; and  I find,  after  all.  that  it  is  much  more  agree- 
able to  allow  others  to  plant  and  build  and  keep  house  for 
me.  I have  no  desire  to  return  to  my  own  possessions,  partly 
on  political  grounds,  but  i)rincipally  because  my  sou.  for 
whose  sake  alone  it  was  anj’  pleasure,  to  me  to  remain  and 
work  there,  — who  will,  by  and  by,  inherit  it,  and  with  i 


ELECTIVE  AEFIXITIES. 


285 


whom  I hoped  to  enjoy  it,  — took  no  interest  in  the  place  at 
all,  bnt  has  gone  out  to  India,  where,  like  many  other  foolish 
fellows,  he  fancies  he  can  make  a higher  use  of  his  life.  He 
is  more  likely  to  squander  it. 

“■Assuredly  we  spend  far  too  much  labor  and  outlay  in 
preparation  for  life.  Instead  of  beginning  at  once  to  make 
ourselves  happy  in  a moderate  condition,  we  spread  ourselves 
out  wider  and  wider,  only  to  make  ourselves  more  and  more 
uncomfortable.  Who  is  there  now  to  enjoy  my  mansion,  my 
park,  my  gardens?  Not  I,  nor  any  of  mine  — strangers, 
visitors,  or  curious,  restless  travellers. 

“ Even  with  large  means,  we  are  ever  bnt  half  and  half  at 
home,  especially  in  tbe  country,  where  we  miss  many  things 
to  which  we  have  become  accustomed  in  town.  The  book 
for  which  we  are  most  anxious  is  not  to  be  had,  and  just 
the  thing  we  wanted  most  is  forgotten.  We  take  to  being 
domestic,  only  again  to  go  out  of  ourselves  : if  we  do  not  go 
astray  of  our  own  will  and  caprice,  circumstances,  passions, 
accidents,  necessity,  and  one  does  not  know  what  besides, 
manage  it  for  us.” 

Little  did  the  earl  imagine  how  deeply  his  friend  would 
be  touched  by  these  random  observations.  It  is  a danger  to 
which  we  are  all  of  us  exi>osed  when  we  venture  on  general 
remarks  in  a society  the  circumstances  of  which  we  might 
have  supposed  were  well  enough  known  to  us.  8uch  casual 
wounds,  even  from  well-meaning,  kindly-disposed  people, 
were  nothing  new  to  Charlotte.  She  so  clearly,  so  thor- 
oughly, knew  and  understood  the  world,  that  it  gave  her  no 
particular  pain  if  it  did  happen,  that,  through  somebody’s 
thoughtlessness  or  imprudence,  she  had  her  attention  forced 
into  this  or  that  unpleasant  direction.  But  it  was  very  dif- 
ferent with  Ottilie.  At  her  half-conscious  age,  at  which  she 
rather  felt  than  saw,  and  at  which  she  was  disposed,  indeed 
was  obliged,  to  turn  her  eyes  away  from  what  she  should  not 
or  would  not  see,  Ottilie  was  thrown  by  this  melancholy  con- 
versation into  the  most  pitialile  state.  It  rudely  tore  away 
the  pleasant  veil  from  before  her  eyes  ; and  it  seemed  to  her 
as  if  what  had  been  done  all  this  time  for  house  and  court, 
for  park  and  garden,  for. all  their  wide  environs,  were  utterly 
in  vain,  because  he  to  whom  it  all  belonged  could  not  enjoy 
it ; because  he,  like  their  present  visitor,  had  been  driven 
out  to  wander  up  and  down  in  the  world  — and  indeed  in  the 
most  perilous  paths  of  it  — by  those  who  were  nearest  and 
dearest  to  him.  She  was  accustomed  to  listen  in  silence ; 


28G 


ELECTIVE  AFFDvITIES. 


but,  on  this  occasion,  she  sat  on  in  the  most  painful  condi- 
tion, which,  indeed,  was  made  rather  wmrse  than  better  by 
what  the  stranger  went  on  to  sa}’,  as  he  continued,  with  his 
peculiar,  humorous  gravity,  — 

“ I think  I am  now  on  the  right  way.  I look  upon  myself 
steadily  as  a traveller,  who  renounces  man}^  things  in  order 
to  enjoy  more.  I am  accustomed  to  change  : it  has  become, 
indeed,  a necessity  to  me,  just  as  in  the  opera,  people  are 
always  looking  out  for  new  and  new  decorations,  because 
there  have  already  been  so  many.  I know  very  well  what 
I am  to  expect  from  the  best  hotels,  and  what  from  the 
worst.  It  maj'  be  as  good  or  it  may  be  as  bad  as  it  will,  but 
I nowhere  find  any  thing  to  which  I am  accustomed ; and  iu 
the  end  it  comes  to  much  the  same  thing  whether  we  depend 
for  onr  eujojnnent  entirely  on  the  regular  order  of  custom, 
or  eutir  dy  on  the  caprices  of  accident.  1 have  never  to  vex 
myself  now  because  this  thing  is  mislaid,  or  that  thing  is 
lost;  because  the  room  in  which  I live  is  uninhabitable,  and 
I must  have  it  repaired  ; because  somebody  has  broken  my 
favorite  cup,  and  for  a long  time  nothing  tastes  well  out  of 
any  other.  All  this  I am  hap[)ily  spared.  If  the  house 
catches  fire  about  my  ears,  m3'  people  quietl}'  pack  m3’  things 
up,  and  we  pass  awa3’  out  of  the  town  in  search  of  other 
quarters.  And  considering  all  these  advantages,  when  I 
reckon  carefull3',  I find,  that,  133’  the  end  of  the  3'ear,  I have 
not  sacrificed  more  than  it  would  have  cost  me  to  be  at 
home.” 

In  this  description  Ottilie  saw  nothing  but  Edward  before 
her.  IIow  he,  too,  was  now  amidst  discomfort  and  hardship, 
marching  along  untrodden  roads,  h’ing  out  in  the  fields  in 
danger  and  want,  and,  in  all  this  iusecurit3'  and  hazard, 
growing  accustomed  to  be  homeless  and  friendless,  learning 
to  fling  awa3’  eveiy  thing  that  he  might  have  nothing  to  lose. 
Fortunatel3'  the  part3'  separated  for  a short  time.  Ottilie 
escajied  to  her  room,  where  she  could  give  wa3’  to  her  tears. 
No  weight  of  sorrow  had  ever  pressed  so  heavilv  upon  her  as 
this  clear  perception  (which  she  tried,  as  peojile  usually  do, 
to  make  still  clearer  to  herself) . that  men  love  to  dalh’  with 
and  exaggerate  the  evils  which  circumstances  have  once 
begun  to  inflict  upon  them. 

Edward’s  condition  appeared  to  her  iu  a light  so  piteous, 
so  miserable,  that  she  made  up  her  mind,  let  it  cost  her  what 
it  would,  that  she  would  do  every  thing  in  her  [lOwer  to  unite 
him  again  with  Charlotte,  and  she  herself  would  go  and  hide 


ELECTIVE  AFEIiSriTIES. 


287 


her  sorrow  and  her  love  in  some  silent  scene,  and  beguile 
the  time  with  such  employment  as  she  could  find. 

Meanwhile  the  earl’s  companion,  a quiet,  sensible  man 
and  a keen  observer,  had  remarked  the  untowardness  of  the 
conversation,  and  spoke  to  his  friend  about  it.  The  latter 
knew  nothing  of  the  circumstances  of  the  family  ; but  the 
other  — being  one  of  those  persons  whose  principal  interest 
in  travelling  lay  in  gathering  up  the  strange  occnrrences 
which  arose  out  of  the  natural  or  artificial  relations  of 
society,  which  were  produced  by  the  conflict  of  the  restraint 
of  law  with  the  violence  of  the  will,  of  the  understanding 
with  the  reason,  of  passion  with  prejudice  — had  seme  time 
before  made  himself  acquainted  with  the  outline  of  the  story  ; 
and,  since  he  had  been  in  the  famil}^  he  had  learnedi  exactly 
all  that  had  taken  place,  and  the  present  position  in  which 
things  were  standing. 

The  earl,  of  course,  was  very  sorry ; but  it  was  not  a thing 
to  make  him  uneasy.  A man  would  have  to  be  silent  alto- 
gether in  soeietj^  were  he  never  to  find  himself  in  such  a 
position ; for  not  only  important  remarks,  but  the  most 
trivial  expressions,  may  happen  to  clash  in  an  inharmonious 
key  with  the  interest  of  somebody  present. 

“We  will  set  things  right  this  evening,’’  said  he,  “and 
escape  from  any  general  conversation;  you  shall  let  them 
hear  one  of  the  many  charming  anecdotes  with  which  your 
portfolio  and  yonr  memory  have  enriched  themselves  while 
we  have  been  abroad.” 

However,  with  the  best  intentions,  the  strangers  did  not, 
on  this  next  occasion,  succeed  any  better  in  gratifjdng  their 
friends  with  unalloj’ed  entertainment.  The  earl’s  friend  told 
a number  of  singular  stories  — some  serious,  some  amusing, 
some  tonchiug,  some  terrible  — with  which  he  had  roused 
their  attention  and  strained  their  interest  to  the  highest  ten- 
sion ; and  he  thought  to  conclude  with  a strange  but  softer 
incident,  little  dreaming  how  nearly  it  would  touch  his  lis- 
teners. 


THE  TWO  STRANGE  CHILDREN. 

“ Two  children  of  neighboring  families,  a boy  and  a girl, 
of  such  respective  ages  as  would  well  suit  their  marrying  at 
some  future  time,  were  brought  up  together  with  this  agreeable 
prospect ; and  the  parents  on  both  sides,  who  were  people  of 
some  position  in  the  world,  looked  forward  with  pleasuz'e  to 
their  future  union. 


288 


ELECTIVE  AFFIKITIES. 


“It  was  too  soon  observccl,  howevei’,  tliat  the  purpose  seemed 
likely  to  fail  : tlie  dispositions  of  both  children  promised  every 
thing  which  was  good,  but  there  was  an  unaccountable  antij)' 
athy  between  them,  l^erhaiis  they  were  too  much  like  each 
other.  Both  were  thoughtful,  clear  in  their  desires,  and  firm 
in  their<})urposes.  Each  separately  was  beloved  and  respected 
by  his  or  her  companions  ; but,  whenever  they  were  together, 
they  were  always  antagonists.  Forming  separate  plans  for 
tliemselves,  they  only  met  to  mutually  cross  and  thwart  one 
another  ; never  emulating  each  other  in  pursuit  of  one  aim, 
but  always  lighting  for  a single  object.  Good-natured  and 
amiable  eveiyv/here  else,  the}'  were  spiteful  and  even  mali- 
cious whenever  they  came  in  contact. 

“This  singular  relation  first  showed  itself  in  their  childish 
games,  and  it  continued  with  their  advancing  years.  The 
boys  used  to  jilay  at  soldiers,  divide  into  parties,  and  give 
each  other  battle  : and  the  fierce,  haughty  young  lady  set 
herself  at  once  at  the  head  of  one  of  the  armies,  and  fought 
against  the  other  with  such  animosity  and  bitterness  that 
the  latter  would  have  been  put  to  a shameful  flight,  except 
for  the  desperate  bravery  of  hei’  own  jiarticular  rival,  who 
at  last  disarmed  his  antagonist  and  took  her  prisoner ; ami 
even  then  she  defended  herself  with  so  much  fury,  that  to 
save  his  eyes  from  being  torn  out,  and,  at  the  same  time,  not 
to  injure  his  enemy,  he  had  been  obliged  to  take,  off  his  silk 
handkerchief,  and  tie  with  it  her  hands  behind  her  back. 

“This  she  never  forgave  him  : she  made  so  many  attempts, 
she  laid  so  many  plans,  to  injure  him,  that  the  parents,  who 
had  been  long  watching  those  singular  passions,  came  to  an 
understanding  together,  and  resolved  to  separate  these  two 
hostile  creatures,  and  sacrifice  their  favorite  hopes. 

“ The  boy  soon  distinguished  himself  in  the  new  situation 
in  which  he  was  placed.  He  mastered  e^■cry  subject  which 
he  was  taught.  His  friends  and  his  own  inclination  chose 
the  army  for  his  profession  ; and  everywhere,  lot  him  be 
where  he  would,  he  was  looked  u|)  to  and  beloved.  His 
disposition  seemed  formed  to  labor  for  the  well-iiemg  and 
pleasure  of  otheis;  and  he  himself,  without  being  clearly 
conscious  of  it,  was  in  himself  haiipy  at  having  got  rid  of 
the  only  antagonist  which  nature  had  assigned  to  him. 

“The  gill,  on  the  other  hand,  became  at  once  an  altered 
creature.  Her  growing  age  ; the  progress  of  her  education  ; 
above  all,  her  own  inward  feelings,  — drew  her  away  from 
the  boisterous  games  with  boys  in  which  she  had  hitherto 


ELECTIVK  AFFINITIES. 


289 


delighted.  Altogether,  she  seemed  to  want  something : 
there  was  nothing  anywhere  almut  her  which  could  deserve 
to  excite  her  hatred,  and  she  had  never  found  any  one  whom 
she  could  think  worthy  of  her  love. 

“ A 3'oung  man,  somewhat  oldei'  than  her  previous  neigh- 
bor-antagonist, of  rank,  })roperty,  and  consequence,  belovetl 
in  society,  and  much  sought  after  b}’  women,  bestowed  his 
affections  upon  her.  It  was  the  first  time  that  friend,  lover, 
or  servant  had  disi>layed  any  interest  in  her.  The  prefer- 
ence he  showed  for  her  above  others  who  were  older,  more 
cultivated,  and  of  more  brilliaut  pretensions  than  herself, 
was  naturally  gratifying : the  coiistauc}'  of  his  attention, 
which  was  never  obtrusive;  his  standing  by  her  faitlifiiliy 
through  a number  of  uniileasant  incidents  ; his  quiet  suit, 
which  was  declared  indeed  to  her  [larents,  but  which,  as  she 
was  still  very  young,  he  did  not  press,  011I3'  asking  to  be 
allowed  to  hope.  — all  this  engaged  him  to  her;  and  custom, 
and  the  assumption  in  the  world  that  the  thing  was  alread}' 
settled,  carried  her  along  with  it.  She  had  so  often  been 
called  his  betrothed  that  at  last  she  began  to  consider  herself 
so  ; and  neither  she  nor  any  one  else  ever  thought  an\'  further 
trial  could  be  necessary  before  she  exchanged  rings  with  the 
person  who  for  so  long  a time  had  passed  for  her  intended. 

“The  peaceful  course  which  the  .affair  had  all  along  fol- 
lowed was  not  at  all  [)recipitatcd  by  the  betrothal.  Things 
were  allowed  to  go  on.  on  both  sides,  just  as  they  were  : they 
were  haiipj'  in  being  togethei’,  and  thej'  could  enjoy  to  the 
end  the  fair  season  of  the  year  as  the  spring  of  their  future 
more  serious  life. 

“The  absent  j’Oiith  had  meanwhile  grown  up  into  ev'ery 
thing  which  was  most  admirable.  He  had  obtained  a well- 
deserved  rank  in  his  profession,  and  came  home  on  leave 
to  visit  his  family.  Towards  bis  fair  neighbor  he  found 
himself  again  in  a natural  but  singular  position.  Irer  some 
time  i>ast  she  had  been  nourishing  in  herself  such  affectionate 
family  feelings  as  suited  her  position  as  a bride  ; she- was  m 
harmony  with  every  thing  about  her ; she  believed  that  she 
was  happy  ; and,  in  a certain  sense,  she  was  so.  Now,  for 
the  first  time  after  a long  interval,  something  again  stood  in 
her  way.  It  was  not  to  be  hated  — she  had  become  incapable 
of  hatred.  Indeed,  the  childish  hatred,  which  had  in  fact 
been  nothing  more  than  an  obscure  recognition  of  inward 
worth,  expressed  itself  now  in  a hap[>y  astonishment,  in 
pleasure  at  meeting,  in  ready  acknowledgments,  in  a half 


290 


ELECTIVE  AFFESTITIES. 


willing,  half  unwilling,  and  yet  irresistible,  attraction  ; and 
all  this  was  mutual.  Their  long  separation  gave  occasion 
for  longer  conversations  ; even  their  old  childish  foolishness 
served,  now  that  they  had  grown  wiser,  to  amuse  them  as 
they  looked  back ; and  they  felt  as  if  at  least  the}'  were 
bound  to  make  good  their  i)etulant  hatred  by  friendliness 
and  attention  to  each  other,  as  if  their  first  violent  injustice  to 
each  other  ought  not  to  be  left  without  open  acknowledgment.. 

“ On  his  side  it  all  remained  in  a sensible,  desirable  mod- 
eration. His  position,  his  circumstances,  his  efforts,  his 
ambition,  found  him  so  abundant  an  occupation,  that  the 
friendliness  of  this  pretty  bride  he  received  as  a very  thank- 
worthy present,  but  without,  therefore,  even  so  much  as 
thinking  of  her  in  connection  with  himself,  or  entertaining 
the  slightest  jealousy  of  the  bridegroom,  with  whom  he  stood 
on  the  best  possible  terms. 

“ With  her,  however,  it  was  altogether  different.  She 
seemed  to  herself  as  if  she  had  awakened  out  of  a dream. 
Her  fightings  with  her  young  neighbor  had  been  the  begin- 
nings of  an  affection  ; and  this  violent  antagonism  was  no 
more  than  an  equally  violent  innate  passion  for  him,  first 
showing  under  the  form  of  opposition.  She  could  remember 
nothing  else  than  that  she  had  always  loved  him.  .She 
laughed  over  her  martial  encounter  with  him  with  weapons  in 
her  hand  : she  dwelt  upon  the  deliglit  of  her  feelings  when 
he  disarmed  her.  She  imagined  that  it  had  given  her  the 
greatest  happiness  when  he  bound  her,  and  whatever  she 
had  done  afterwards  to  injure  him  or  to  vex  him  presented 
itself  to  her  as  only  an  innocent  means  of  attracting  his 
attention  She  cursed  their  separation.  She  bewailed  the 
sleepy  state  into  which  she  had  fallen.  She  execrated  the 
insidious,  lazy  routine  which  had  betrayed  her  into  accepting 
so  insignificant  a bridegroom.  She  was  transformed,  douldy 
transformed,  forwards  or  backwards,  whichever  way  we  like 
to  take  it. 

“She  kept  her  feelings  entirely  to  herself;  but  if  any 
one  could  have  divined  them,  and  shared  them  with  her,  he 
could  not  have  blamed  her : for  indeed  the  bridegroom  could 
not  sustain  a comparison  with  the  other  as  soon  as  they  were 
seen  together.  If  a sort  of  regard  to  the  one  could  not  be 
refused,  the  other  excited  the  fullest  trust  and  eoufidence. 
If  one  made  an  agreeable  acquaintance,  the  other  we  should 
desire  for  a companion  ; and  in  extraordinary  cases,  where 
higher  demands  might  have  to  be  made  on  them , the  bridegroom 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


291 


was  a person  to  lie  utterly  despaired  of,  while  the  other  would 
give  the  feeling  of  perfect  securit3^ 

“There  is  ^a  peculiar  innate  tact  in  women  which  discovers 
to  them  differences  of  this  kind,  and  they  have  cause  as 
well  as  occasion  to  cultivate  it. 

“ The  more  the  fair  bride  was  nourishing  all  these  feelings 
in  secret,  the  less  opportunity  there  was  for  any  one  to  speak 
a word  which  could  tell  in  favor  of  her  Inddegroom.  to  remind 
her  of  what  her  duty  and  their  relative,  position  advised  and 
commanded,  — indeed,  what  an  unalterable  necessity  seemed 
now  irrevocably  to  require  : the  poor  heart  gave  itself  up 
entirely  to  its  passion. 

“ On  one  side  she  was  bound  inextricably  to  the  bridegroom 
b}^  the  world,  bj'  her  famih’,  and  bj'  her  own  promise  : on  the 
other,  the  ambitious  3’oung  man  made  no  secret  of  what  he 
was  thinking  and  planning  for  himself,  conducting  himself 
towards  her  outy"  as  a kind,  but  not  at  all  a tender,  brother, 
and  speaking  of  his  departure  as  immediatety^  impending  ; and 
now  it  seemed  as  if  her  earh"  childish  spirit  woke  up  again  in 
her  with  all  its  spleen  and  violence,  and  was  preparing  itself 
in  its  distemper,  on  this  higher  stage  of  life,  to  work  more 
effectively  and  destructively.  .She  determined  that  she  would 
die  to  punish  the  once  hated,  and  now  so  passionately  loved, 
youth  for  his  want  of  interest  in  her ; and,  as  she  could  not 
possess  himself,  at  least  she  would  wed  herself  forever  to 
his  imagination  and  to  his  repentance.  Her  dead  image 
should  cling  to  him,  and  he  should  never  be  free  from  it. 
He  should  never  cease  to  reiiroach  himself  for  not  having 
understood,  examined,  valued  her  feelings  toward  him. 

“This  singular  insanity^  accompanied  her  wherever  she 
went.  She  kept  it  concealed  under  all  sorts  of  forms  ; and, 
although  people  thought  her  veiy  odd,  no  one  was  observ- 
ant enough  or  clever  enough  to  discover  the  real  inward 
reason. 

“ In  the  mean  time,  friends,  relations,  acquaintances,  had 
exhausted  themselves  in  contrivances  for  pleasure-parties. 
Scarcety^  a day  passed,  but  something  new  and  unexpected 
was  set  on  foot.  There  was  hardty"  a pretty  spot  in  the 
country  round  which  had  not  been  decked  out  and  pre- 
pared for  the  reception  of  some  merry  partyu  And  now 
our  young  visitor,  before  departing,  wished  to  do  his  part 
as  well,  and  invited  the  3'oung  couple,  with  a small  family 
circle,  to  an  expedition  on  the  water.  They  went  on 
board  a large,  beautiful  vessel,  dressed  out  in  all  its  colors, 


292 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


— one  of  the  yachts  whicli  had  a small  saloon,  and  a cahin 
or  two  besides,  and  are  intended  to  carry  with  them  upon  the 
water  the  comfort  and  conveniences  of  land. 

“ They  set  out  upon  tlie  l)ioad  river  with  mnsic-playing.  | 
The  part}'  had  collected  in  the  cal)in,  l)elow  deck,  during  tlie 
heat  of  the  day,  and  were  amusing  themselves  with  games.  , 
Their  young  host,  who  could  never  remain  without  doing  ; 
something,  had  taken  charge  of  the  liehn,  to  relieve  the  old 
master  of  tlie  vessel ; and  the  latter  liad  lain  down  and  was 
fast  asleej).  It  was  a moment  when  the  steerer  required  all 
liis  circumsiiectness,  as  tlie  vessel  was  nearing  a spot  where 
two  islands  narrowed  the  channel  of  the  river ; while  shallow 
banks  of  shingle  stretching  off,  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  ' 
the  other,  made  the  navigation  dilficult  and  dangerous.  Pru- 
dent and  sharp-sighted  as  he  was,  he  thought  for  a moment  ■ 
that  it  would  be  better  to  wake  the  master  ; but  he  felt  confi- 
deut  in  himself,  and  he  thought  he  would  venture  and  make 
straight  for  the  narrows.  At  this  moment  his  fair  enemy  ap- 
peared upon  deck  with  a wreath  of  flowers  in  her  hair.  ‘ Take 
this  to  remember  me  by,’  she  cried  out.  She  took  it  off.  and 
threw  it  to  the  steerer.  ‘ Don’t  disturb  me,’  he  answered 
quickly,  as  he  caught  the  wreath  : ‘ I require  all  my  powers 
and  all  mj'  attention  now.’  — ^ You  will  never  be  disturbed 
by  me  any  more,’  she  cried;  ‘you  will  never  see  me 
again.’  As  she  spoke,  she  rushed  to  the  forward  part  of 
the  vessel ; and  from  thence  she  sprang  into  the  water. 
Voice  upon  voice  called  out,  ‘Save  her.  save  her:  she  is 
sinking ! ’ He  was  in  the  most  terrible  difficulty.  In  the 
confusion  the  old  shipmaster  woke,  and  tried  to  catch  the 
rudder,  which  the  young  man  bid  him  take.  But  there 
was  no  time  to  change  hands.  The  vessel  stranded ; and 
at  the  same  moment,  flinging  off  the  heaviest  of  his  upper 
garments,  he  sprang  into  the  water,  and  swam  towards  his 
lieautiful  enemy.  The  water  is  a friendly  element  to  a man 
who  is  at  home  in  it,  and  who  knows  how  to  deal  with  it : it 
buoyed  him  up,  and  acknowledged  the  strong  swimmer  .as 
its  master.  He  soon  overtook  the  beautiful  girl,  who  had 
been  swept  away'  before  him  : he  caught  hold  of  her.  raised 
her  and  supported  her ; and  both  of  them  were  canned  vio- 
lently down  by'  the  current,  till  the  shoals  and  islands  were 
left  far  behind,  and  the  river  was  again  open  and  running 
smoothly.  He  now  began  to  collect  himself  : they’  had  passed 
the  first  immediate  danger,  in  which  he  had  been  obliged  to 
act  mechanically  without  time  to  think ; he  raised  his  head 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


293 


as  high  as  he  could  to  look  about  him,  and  then  swam  with 
all  his  might  to  a low,  bushy  point,  which  ran  out  conven- 
iently into  the  stream.  There  he  brought  his  fair  burden  to 
dry  land,  but  he  could  find  no  signs  of  life  in  her : he  was 
in  despair,  when  he  caught  sight  of  a trodden  path  leading 
among  the  bushes.  Again  he  caught  her  up  in  his  arms, 
hurried  forward,  and  presently  reached  a solitary  cottage. 
There  he  found  kind,  good  people, — a young  married 
couple  ; the  misfortunes  and  dangers  were  soon  explained ; 
every  remedy  he  could  think  gf  was  instantly  applied ; a 
bright  fire  blazed  up  ; woollen  blankets  were  spread  on  a 
bed  ; counterpane,  cloaks,  skins,  whatever  there  was  at  hand 
which  would  serve  for  warmth,  were  heaped  over  her  as  fast 
as  possible.  The  desire  to  save  life  overpowered,  for  the 
present,  every  other  consideration.  Nothing  was  left  un- 
done to  bring  back  to  life  the  beautiful,  half-torpid,  naked 
body.  It  succeeded : she  opened  her  eyes  ! her  friend  was 
before  her : she  threw  her  heavenly  arms  about  his  neck. 
In  this  position  she  remained  for  a time,  and  then  a stream 
of  tears  burst  out  and  completed  her  recovery.  ‘ Will  you 
forsake  me,’  she  cried,  ‘ now,  when  I find  5^11  again 
thus?’  — ‘Never,’  he  answered,  ‘never,’  hardly  know- 
ing what  he  said  or  did.  ‘Only  consider  yourself,’  she 
added,  ‘ take  care  of  yourself,  for  your  sake  and  for 
mine.’ 

“ She  now  began  to  collect  herself,  and  for  the  first 
time  recollected  the  state  in  which  she  was  : she  could  not 
be  ashamed  before  her  darliug,  before  her  preserver ; but 
she  gladly  allowed  him  to  go,  that  he  might  take  care  of 
himself : for  the  clothes  he  still  wore  were  wet  aud  drip- 
ping. 

“ Their  young  hosts  considered  what  could  be  done.  The 
husband  offered  the  young  man,  and  the  wife  offered  the 
fair  lady,  the  dresses  in  which  they  had  been  married,  which 
were  hanging  up  in  full  perfection,  aud  sufficient  for  a 
complete  suit,  inside  and  out,  for  two  people.  In  a short 
time  our  pair  of  adventurers  were  not  only  equipped,  but 
in  full  costume.  They  looked  most  charming,  gazed  at 
one  another,  when  they  met,  with  admiration ; and  then 
with  infinite  affection,  half  laughing  at  the  same  time  at 
the  quaintness  of  their  appearance,  they  fell  into  each  other’s 
arms. 

“The  power  of  youth  aud  the  quickening  spirit  of  love 
in  a few  moments  completely  restored  them,  aud  there 


294 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


■was  nothing  wanted  but  music  to  have  set  them  both  off 
dancing. 

“ To  have  found  themselves  brought  from  the  water  on  dry 
land,  from  death  into  life,  from  the  circle  of  their  families 
into  a ■\vilderness,  from  despair  into  rapture,  from  indifference 
to  affection  and  to  love,  all  in  a moment,  — the  head  was  not 
strong  enough  to  bear  it : it  must  either  burst,  or  go  dis- 
tracted ; or,  if  so  distressing  an  alternative  were  to  be  escaped, 
the  heart  must  put  out  all  its  efforts. 

‘ ‘ Lost  wholly  in  each  other,  it  was  long  before  they  rec- 
ollected the  alarm  and  anxiety  of  those  who  had  been  left 
behind  ; and  they  themselves,  indeed,  could  not  well  think, 
without  alarm  and  anxiety,  how  they  were  again  to  encounter 
them.  ‘ Shall  w'e  run  away?  shall  we  hide  ourselves?  ’ said 
the  young  man.  ‘ We  will  remain  together,’  she  said,  as  she 
clung  to  his  neck. 

“ The  peasant,  having  heard  them  say  that  a boat  was 
aground  on  the  shoal,  had  hurried  down,  without  stopping  to 
ask  another  question,  to  the  shore.  When  he  arrived  there, 
he  saw  the  vessel  coming  safely  down  the  stream.  After 
much  lalior  it  had  been  got  off ; and  they  were  now  going  on 
in  uncertainty,  hoping  to  find  their  lost  ones  again  somewhere. 
The  peasant  shouted  and  made  signs  to  them,  and  at  last 
caught  the  attention  of  those  on  board  : then  he  ran  to  a spot 
where  there  was  a convenient  place  for  landing,  and  went  on 
signalling  and  shouting  till  the  vessel’s  head  was  turned 
towards  the  shore  ; and  what  a scene  there  was  for  them 
when  they  landed!  The  parents  of  the  two  betrothed  first 
pressed  forward  to  the  bank  : the  poor,  loving  bridegroom  had 
almost  lost  his  senses.  They  had  scarcely  learned  that  their 
dear  children  had  been  saved,  when  in  their  strange  disguise 
the  latter  came  forward  out  of  the  bushes  to  meet  them.  No 
one  recognized  them  till  tliey  had  come  quite  close.  ‘ Who 
do  I see  ?' cried  the  mothers.  ‘What  do  I see?’  cried  the 
fathers.  The  preserved  ones  flung  themselves  on  the  ground 
before  them.  ‘ Your  children,’  they  called  out : ‘.a  pair.’  — 
‘ Forgive  us  ! ’ cried  the  maiden.  ‘ Give  us  3-0 ur  blessing  I ’ 
cried  tlie  J'oung  man.  ‘ Give  us  j’our  blessing  ! ’ they  cried 
Ijoth,  as  all  the  world  stood  still  in  wonder.  ‘ Your  blessing  ! ’ 
was  repeated  the  third  time ; and  who  would  have  been  able 
to  refuse  it  ? ” 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


295 


CHAPTER  XI. 

The  iiaiTator  made  a pause,  or,  rather,  he  had  already 
finished  his  stoiy,  before  he  observed  the  emotion  into  which 
Charlotte  liad  l)eeu  thrown  by  it.  She  got  up,  uttered  some 
sort  of  an  apology,  and  left  the  room.  To  her  it  was  a well- 
known  history.  The  principal  incident  in  it  had  really  taken 
place  with  the  captain  and  a neighbor  of  her  own,  not 
exactly,  indeed,  as  the  Englishman  had  related  it.  But  the 
main  features  of  it  were  the  same.  It  had  only  been  more 
finished  off  and  elaborated  in  its  details,  as  stories  of  that 
kind  always  are,  when  they  have  passed  first  through  the  lips 
of  the  multitude,  and  then  through  the  fancy  of  a clever  and 
imaginative  narrator ; the  result  of  the  process  being  usually 
to  leave  every  thing  and  nothing  as  it  was. 

Ottilie  followed  Charlotte,  as  the  two  friends  begged  her 
to  do ; and  then  it  was  the  earl’s  turn  to  remark,  that  per- 
I haps  they  had  made  a second  mistake,  and  that  the  subject 
of  the  story  had  been  well  known  to,  or  was  in  some  way 
connected  with,  the  family.  “ We  must  take  care,”  he  added, 

: “ that  we  do  no  more  mischief  here  ; we  seem  to  bring  little 
good  to  our  entertainers  for  all  the  kindness  and  hospitality 
' which  they  have  shown  us : we  will  make  some  excuse  for 
ourselves,  and  then  take  our  leave.” 

“I  must  confess,”  answered  his  companion,  “that  there 
is  something  else  which  still  holds  me  here  ; and,  on  account 
of  which,  I should  be  sony  to  leave  this  house  without  having 
it  explained  to  me,  and  becoming  better  acquainted  with  it. 

' You  were  too  busy  yourself  yesterday,  when  we  were  in  the 
, park  with  the  camera,  in  looking  for  spots  where  you  could 
'll  make  your  sketches,  to  have  observed  any  thing  else  which 
was  passing.  You  left  the  broad  walk,  you  remember,  and 
went  to  a sequestered  place  on  the  side  of  the  lake.  There 
was  a fine  view  of  the  opposite  shore,  which  you  wished  to 
take.  Well,  Ottilie,  who  was  with  us,  got  up  to  follow,  and 
then  proposed  that  she  and  I should  find  our  way  to  you  in 
the  boat.  I got  in  with  her,  and  was  delighted  with  the  skill 
of  my  fair  conductress.  I assured  her,  that  never  since  I 
, had  been  in  Switzerland,  where  the  young  ladies  so  often  fill 
j the  place  of  the  boatmen,  had  I been  so  pleasantly  ferried 
over  the  water.  At  the  same  time,  I could  not  help  asking 
her  why  she  had  showm  such  au  objection  to  going  the  way 
j which  you  had  gone,  along  the  little  by-path.  I had  observed 


296 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


her  shrink  from  it  with  a soi’t  of  painful  uneasiness.  She 
was  not  at  all  offended.  ‘ If  you  will  promise  not  to  laugh 
at  me,’  she  answered,  ‘I  will  tell  you  as  much  as  I know 
about  it ; but  to  myself  it  is  a mystery  which  I cannot 
explain.  There  is  a particular  spot  in  that  path  which  I 
never  j)ass  without  a strange  shudder  passing  over  me,  which  i 
I do  not  remember  ever  feeling  anywhere  else,  and  which  I ; 
cannot  the  least  understand.  But  1 shrink  from  exposing 
myself  to  the  sensation,  because  it  is  followed  immediately  , 
after  by  a pain  on  the  left  side  of  my  liead,  from  which  at  j 
other  times  I suffer  severely.’  We  landed.  Ottilie  was  eu-  i 
gaged  with  you  ; and  I took  the  opportunity  of  examining  j 
the  spot,  which  she  pointed  out  to  me  as  we  went  by  on  the  i 
water.  I was  not  a little  surprised  to  find  there  distinct  j 
traces  of  coal,  in  sufficient  quantities  to  convince  me,  that,  at  1 
a short  distance  below  the  surface,  there  must  be  a consider-  ' 
able  bed  of  it.  l 

“ Pardon  me,  my  lord  : I see  you  smile  ; and  I know  very  i 
well  that  you  have  no  faith  in  these  things  about  which  I am  i 
so  eager,  and  that  it  is  only  }'our  sense  and  your  kindness  ■ 
which  enable  you  to  tolerate  me.  However,  it  is  impossible 
for  me  to  leave  this  place  without  tiding  on  that  beautiful 
creature  an  expeilment  with  the  pendulum.” 

Whenever  these  matters  came  to  be  spoken  of,  the  earl 
never  failed  to  repeat  the  same  objections  to  them  over  and 
over  again  ; and  his  friend  endured  them  all  quietly  and 
jiatieutly,  remaining  firm,  nevertheless,  to  his  own  opinion, 
and  holding  to  his  own  wishes.  He.  too.  repeatedly  showed 
that  there  was  no  reason,  because  tlie  experiment  did  not 
succeed  with  every  one,  that  they  should  give  them  up.  as 
if  there  were  nothing  in  them  but  fancy.  They  should  be 
examined  into  all  the  more  earnestly  and  scrupulously : and 
there  was  no  doubt  that  the  result  would  be  the  discovery  of 
a number  of  affinities  of  inorganic  creatures  for  one  another, 
and  of  organic  creatures  for  them,  and  again  for  each  other, 
which  at  present  were  unknown  to  us. 

He  had  already  spread  out  his  apparatus  of  gold  rings, 
niarcasites,  and  other  metallic  substances,  which  he  always 
carried  about  with  himself,  in  a pretty  little  box  ; and  he  sns- 
pended  a piece  of  metal  by  a string  over  another  piece,  which 
he  placed  upon  the  table.  ‘‘  Now,  my  lord,”  he  said,  “ you 
may  take  what  pleasure  you  please  (I  can  see  in  your  face 
what  you  are  feeling)  at  perceiving  that  nothing  will  set 
itself  in  motion  with  me  or  for  me.  But  my  proceedings 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


297 


are  no  more  tlian  a pretext : when  the  ladies  come  back,  they 
will  be  curious  to  know  what  strange  work  we  are  about.” 

The  ladies  returned.  Charlotte  understood  at  once  what 
was  going  on.  “1  have  heard  much  of  these  things,”  she 
said,  “ but  1 never  saw  the  effect  myself.  You  have  every 
thing  ready  there.  Let  me  try  whether  I can  succeed  in 
producing  any  thing.” 

She  took  the  thread  into  her  hand  ; and,  as  she  was  perfectly 
serious,  she  held  it  steady,  and  without  any  agitation.  Not 
the  slightest  motion,  however,  could  be  detected.  Ottilie 
was  then  called  upon  to  tiy.  She  held  the  pendulum,  still 
more  quietly  and  unconsciously,  over  the  plate  on  the  table. 
But  in  a moment  the  swinging  piece  of  metal  began  to  stir 
with  a distinct  rotatoiy  action,  and  turned  as  they  moved  the 
position  of  the  plate,  first  to  one  side  and  then  to  the  other ; 
now  in  circles,  now  in  ellipses  ; or  else  describing  a series  of 
straight  lines  ; doing  all  the  earl’s  friend  could  expect,  and 
far  exceeding,  indeed,  all  his  expectations. 

The  earl  himself  was  a little  staggered ; but  the  other 
could  never  be  satisfied  from  delight  and  curiosity,  and 
begged  for  the  experiment  again  and  again,  with  all  sorts  of 
variations.  Ottilie  was  complacent  enough  to  gratify  him  ; 
till  at  last  she  politel}^  requested  to  be  allowed  to  go,  as  her 
headache  had  come  on  again.  In  further  admiration,  and 
even  rapture,  he  assured  her  with  enthusiasm  that  he  would 
cure  her  forever  of  her  disorder,  if  she  would  only  trust 
herself  to  his  remedies.  For  a moment  they  did  not  know 
what  he  meant ; but  Charlotte,  who  quickly  saw  what  he 
was  about,  declined  his  well-meant  offer,  not  liking  to  have 
introduced  and  practised  about  her  a thing  of  which  she  had 
always  had  the  strongest  apprehensions. 

The  strangers  were  gone,  and,  notwithstanding  their  hav- 
ing been  the  inadvertent  cause  of  strange  and  painful  emo- 
tions, left  the  wish  behind  them  that  this  meeting  might  not 
be  the  last.  Charlotte  now  made  use  of  the  beautiful 
weather  to  return  visits  in  the  neighborhood,  wdiich,  indeed, 
gave  her  work  enough  to  do,  seeing  that  the  whole  country 
round,  some  from  a real  interest,  some  merely  from  custom, 
had  been  most  attentive  in  calling  to  inquire  after  her.  At 
home  her  delight  was  the  sight  of  the  child,  and  really  it 
well  deserved  all  love  and  interest.  People  saw  in  it  a won- 
derful child,  — nay,  a prodigy  : the  brightest,  sunniest  little 
face ; a fine,  well-proportioned  body,  strong  and  healthy ; 
and,  what  surprised  them  more,  the  double  resemblance. 


298 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


which  became  more  and  more  conspicuous.  In  figure,  and  in 
the  features  of  the  face,  it  was  like  the  captain  : the  eyes  every 
day  it  was  less  easy  to  distinguish  from  the  eyes  of  Ottilie. 

Ottilie  herself,  partly  from  this  remarkable  affinity,  per- 
haps still  more  under  the  influence  of  that  sweet  woman’s 
feeling  which  makes  them  regard  with,  the  most  tender  affec- 
tion the  offspring  of  the  man  they  love,  even  wheu  born  to 
him  liy  another  woman,  was  as  good  as  a mother  to  the  little 
creature  as  it  grew  ; or,  rather,  she  was  a second  mother  of 
another  kind.  If  Charlotte  was  absent,  Ottilie  remained 
alone  with  the  child  and  the  nurse.  Nanny  had  for  some 
time  past  been  jealous  of  the  boy  for  monopolizing  the 
entire  affections  of  her  mistress : she  had  left  her  in  a fit  of 
crossness,  and  gone  back  to  her  mother.  Ottilie  would  carry 
the  child  about  in  the  open  air,  and  by  degrees  took  longer 
and  longer  walks  with  him.  8he  took  her  bottle  of  milk,  to 
give  the  child  its  food  wheu  it  wanted  any.  Generally,  too, 
she  took  a book  with  her ; and  so,  with  the  child  in  her 
arms,  reading  and  wandering,  she  made  a very  pretty  Pen- 
serosa. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

The  object  of  the  campaign  was  attained ; and  Edward, 
with  crosses  and  decorations,  was  honorably  dismissed.  He  i 
betook  himself  at  once  to  the  same  little  estate,  where  he 
found  exact  accounts  of  his  familj^  waiting  for  him,  on 
W'hom,  all  this  time,  without  their  having  observed  it  or 
known  of  it,  a sharji  watch  had  been  kept  under  his  orders. 
His  quiet  residence  looked  most  sweet  and  pleasant  when  he  ’ 
reached  it.  In  accordance  with  his  orders,  various  improve- 
ments had  been  made  in  his  absence  ; and  what  was  wanting 
to  the  establishment  in  extent  was  compensated  by  its 
internal  comforts  aud  conveniences.  Edward,  accustomed 
by  his  more  active  habits  of  life  to  take  decided  steps, 
determined  to  execute  a jiroject  which  he  long  had  sufficient 
time  to  think  over.  First  of  all,  he  invited  the  major  to 
come  to  him.  Great  was  their  joy  at  meeting  again.  The 
friendships  of  bojdiood,  like  relationship  of  blood,  possess 
this  important  advantage,  that  mistakes  and  misunderstand- 
ings never  produce  irreparable  injury,  aud  the  old  regard 
after  a time  will  always  re-establish  itself. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


299 


Edward  began  by  inquiring  about  the  situation  of  his 
friend,  and  learned  that  fortune  had  favored  him  exactly  as 
he  most  could  have  wished.  He  then  half  seriously  asked 
whether  there  was  not  something  going  forward  about  a 
marriage,  to  which  he  received  a most  decided  and  positive 
denial. 

“I  cannot  and  will  not  have  any  reserve  with  you,”  he 
proceeded.  “ I will  tell  you  at  once  what  my  own  feelings 
are,  and  what  I intend  to  do.  You  know  my  passion  for 
Ottilie : you  must  long  have  comprehended  that  it  was  this 
wEich  drove  me  into  the  campaign.  I do  not  deny  that  I 
desired  to  he  rid  of  a life  which,  without  her,  would  be  of 
no  further  value  to  me.  At  the  same  time,  however,  I 
acknowledge  that  I could  never  bring  myself  utterly  to 
despair.  The  prospect  of  happiness  with  her  was  so  beauti- 
ful, so  infinitely  charming,  that  it  was  not  possible  for  me 
entirely  to  renounce  it.  Feelings,  too,  which  I cannot  ex- 
plain, and  a number  of  happy  omens,  have  combined  to 
strengthen  me  in  the  belief,  in  the  assurance,  that  Ottilie 
will  one  day  be  mine.  The  glass,  with  our  initials  cut  upon 
it,  which  was  thrown  into  the  air  when  the  foundation-stone 
was  laid,  did  not  go  to  pieces  : it  was  caught,  and  I have  it 
again  in  my  possession.  After  many  miserable  hours  of 
uncertainty,  spent  m this  place,  I said  to  myself,  ‘ I will  put 
myself  in  the  place  of  this  glass,  and  it  shall  be  an  omen 
whether  our  union  be  possible  or  not.  I will  go : I will  seek 
for  death,  not  like  a madman,  but  like  a man  who  still 
hopes  that  he  may  live.  Ottilie  shall  be  the  prize  for  which 
I fight.  Ottilie  shall  be  behiud  the  ranks  of  the  enemy  : in 
' every  intrenchment,  in  every  beleaguered  fortress,  I shall 
hope  to  find  her  and  to  win  her.  I will  do  wouders,  with 
the  wish  to  survive  them  ; with  the  hope  to  gain  Ottilie,  not 
to  lose  her.’  These  feelings  have  led  me  on,  they  have 
stood  by  me  through  all  dangers  ; and  now  I find  myself  like 
one  who  has  arrived  at  his  goal,  wdio,  having  overcome  every 
difficulty,  has  nothiug  more  left  iu  his  way.  Ottilie  is  mine  ; 
and  whatever  lies  between  the  thought  aud  the  execution  of 
it  I can  only  regard  as  unimportant.” 

“ With -a  few  strokes  you  blot  out,”  replied  the  major, 
“ all  the  objections  that  we  can  or  ought  to  urge  iq)on  you  ; 
and  yet  they  must  be  repeated.  I must  leave  it  to  yourself 
to  recall  the  full  value  of  your  relation  with  your  wife ; but 
you  owe  it  to  her,  and  you  owe  it  to  yourself,  not  to  close 
your  eyes  to  it.  How  can  I so  much  as  mention  that  you 


300 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


have  had  a son  given  to  yon,  vithont  acknowledging  at  once 
that  yon  two  belong  to  one  another  forever ; that  you  are 
bound,  for  this  little  creature’s  sake,  to  live  united,  that 
united  you  may  educate  it,  and  provide  for  its  future  wel- 
fare ? ’ ’ 

“It  is  no  more  than  the  blindness  of  parents,’’  answered 
Edward,  “ wdien  they  imagine  their  existence  to  be  of  so 
much  importance  to  their  children.  "Whatever  lives  finds 
nourishment  and  finds  assistance ; and  if  the  son  who  has 
early  lost  his  father  does  not  spend  so  easy,  so  favored  a 
youth,  he  profits,  perhaps,  for  that  very  reason,  in  being 
trained  sooner  for  the  world,  and  comes  to  a timely  knowl- 
edge that  he  must  accommodate  himself  to  others.  — a thing 
which  sooner  or  later  we  are  all  forced  to  learn.  Here,  how- 
ever, even  these  considerations  are  irrelevant : we  are  suf- 
ficiently well  off  to  be  able  to  provide  for  more  children  than 
one,  and  it  is  neither  right  nor  kind  to  accumulate  so  large  a 
property  on  a single  head.’’ 

The  major  attempted  to  say  something  of  Charlotte’s 
worth  and  Edward’s  long-standing  attachment  to  her,  but 
the  latter  hastily  interrupted  him.  “We  committed  our- 
selves to  a foolish  thing,  — that  I see  all  too  clearly.  Who- 
ever, in  middle  age,  attempts  to  realize  the  wishes  and  hopes 
of  his  early  youth  invariably  deceives  himself.  Each  decade 
of  a man’s  life  has  its  own  fortunes,  its  own  hopes,  its  own 
desires.  Woe  to  him  who,  either  by  circumstances  or  by 
his  own  infatuation,  is  induced  to  grasp  at  any  thing  before 
him  or  behind  him.  We  have  done  a foolish  thing.  Are  we 
to  abide  by  it  all  our  lives?  Are  we  to  hesitate  indulging  in 
what  the  customs  of  the  age  do  not  forbid?  In  how  many 
matters  do  men  recall  their  intentions  and  their  actions ! 
And  shall  it  not  be  allowed  to  them  here,  here  where  the 
question  is  not  of  this  thing  or  of  that,  but  of  every  thing ; 
not  of  our  single  condition  of  life,  but  of  the  whole  com- 
plex life  itself?  ’’ 

Again  the  major  adroitly  and  impressively  urged  on 
Edward  to  consider  what  he  owed  to  his  wife,  what  was  due 
to  his  family,  to  the  ivorld,  and  to  his  own  position  ; but  he 
could  not  succeed  in  producing  the  slightest  impression. 

“All  these  questions,  my  friend,’’  he  returned,  “I  have 
considered  alread}"  again  and  again.  They  have  passed  be- 
fore me  in  the  storm  of  battle,  when  the  earth  was  shaking 
with  the  thunder  of  the  cannon,  with  the  balls  singing  and 
whistling  round  me,  with  my  comrades  falling  right  and  left, 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


801 


my  horse  shot  under  me,  my  hat  pierced  with  bullets,  They 
have  floated  liefore  me  by  the  still  watch-fire  under  the  starry 
vault  of  the  sky.  I have  thoroughly  thought  on  them  all, 
felt  them  all  through.  I have  weighed  them  ; and  I have 
satisfied  myself  about  them  again  and  again,  and  now  for- 
ever. At  such  moments  why  should  I not  acknowledge  it  to 
you?  you,  too,  were  in  my  thoughts,  you,  too,  belonged  to 
my  circle  ; as,  indeed,  you  and  1 have  long  belonged  to  one 
another.  If  I have  ever  been  in  your  debt,  I am  now  in  a 
position  to  repay  it  with  interest ; if  you  have  been  in  mine, 
you  have  now  the  means  to  make  it  good  to  me.  I know 
that  you  love  Charlotte,  and  she  deserves  it.  I know  that 
you  are  not  indifferent  to  her,  and  why  should  she  not  feel 
your  worth?  Take  her  at  my  hand,  and  give  Ottilie  to  me, 
and  we  shall  be  the  happiest  beings  upon  the  earth.” 

“ If  you  choose  to  assign  me  so  high  a*  character,”  replied 
the  major,  “I  have  to  be  all  the  more  strict  and  prudent. 
Whatever  there  may  be  in  this  proposal  to  make  it  attractive 
to  me,  instead  of  simplifying  the  problem,  it  only  increases  the 
difficulty  of  it.  The  question  is  now  of  me  as  well  as  of  you. 
The  fortunes,  the  good  name,  the  honor  of  two  men,  hitherto 
unsullied  wdth  a breath,  will  be  exposed  to  hazard  by  so 
strange  a proceeding,  to  call  it  by  no  harsher  name  ; and  we 
shall  appear  before  the  world  in  a higlily  questionable  light.” 

“Our  very  characters  being  what  they  are,”  replied 
Edward,  “ give  us  a right  to  take  this  single  liberty.  A man 
who  has  borne  himself  honorably  through  a whole  life,  makes 
an  action  honorable  which  might  appear  ambiguous  in  others. 
As  concerns  myself,  after  these  last  trials  which  I have  taken 
upon  myself,  after  the  difficult  and  dangerous  actions  I have 
accomplished  for  others,  I now  feel  entitled  to  do  something 
for  myself.  For  you  and  Charlotte,  that  part  of  the  busi- 
ness may,  if  you  like,  be  given  up  ; but  neither  you  nor  any 
one  shall  keep  me  from  doing  what  I have  determined.  If  I 
may  look  for  help  and  furtherance,  I shall  be  ready  to  do  all 
that  can  be  wished ; but  if  I am  to  be  left  to  myself,  or  if 
obstacles  are  to  be  thrown  in  my  way,  something  extreme  is 
sure  to  be  the  consequence.” 

The  major  thought  it  his  duty  to  combat  Edward’s  purposes 
as  long  as  it  was  possible,  and  now  he  changed  the  mode  of 
his  attack  and  tried  a diversion.  He  seemed  to  give  way, 
and  only  spoke  of  the  form  of  what  they  would  have  to  do  to 
Dring  about  this  separation  and  these  new  unions  ; and  so 
mentioned  a number  of  unpleasant,  undesirable  matters, 
which  put  Edward  into  the  worst  of  tempers. 


302 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


“ I see  plainly,”  he  cried  at  last,  “ that  what  we  desire  can 
only  be*  carried  by  storm,  whether  it  be  from  our  enemies  or 
from  our  friends.  I keep  clearly  before  my  own  eyes  what  I 
demand,  what,  one  way  or  another,  I must  have  ; and  I will 
seize  it  promptly  and  surely.  Connections  like  ours,  I know 
veiy  well,  cannot  be  broken  up  and  reconstructed  again  with- 
out much  being  thrown  down  which  is  standing,  and  much 
having  to  give  way  which  would  be  glad  enough  to  continue. 
We  shall  come  to  no  conclusion  by  thinking  about  it.  All 
rights  are  alike  to  the  understanding,  and  it  is  alwaj's  easy 
to  throw  extra  weight  into  the  ascending  scale.  Do  you  make 
up  your  mind,  my  friend,  to  act,  and  act  promptly,  for  me  and 
for  yourself.  Disentangle  aud  untie  the  knots,  and  tie  them 
up  again.  Do  not  be  deterred  by  any  considerations.  We 
have  already  given  the  world  something  to  say  about  us.  It 
will  talk  about  us  once  more  ; and,  when  we  have  ceased  to  be 
a niue  days’  wonder,  it  will  forget  us  as  it  forgets  every  thing 
else,  and  allow  us  to  follow  our  own  way  without  further  con- 
cern with  us.”  The  major  had  nothing  further  to  say,  aud 
was  at  last  obliged  to  submit  to  Edward’s  treating  the  matter 
as  now  conclusively  settled,  going  into  detail  conceruiug 
what  had  to  be  done,  and  picturing  the  future  iu  the  most 
cheerful  manner,  and  even  joking  about  it ; then  again  he 
went  on  seriously  aud  thoughtfully,  “If  we  think  to  leave 
ourselves  to  the  hope,  to  the  expectation,  that  all  will  go  right 
again  of  itself,  that  accident  will  lead  us  straight,  aud  take 
care  of  us,  it  will  be  a most  culpable  self-deception.  In  such 
a way  it  would  be  impossible  for  us  to  save  ourselves,  or  re- 
establish our  peace  again.  I who  have  been  the  innocent 
cause  of  it  all,  how  am  I ever  to  console  myself  ? By  my 
own  importunity  I prevailed  on  Charlotte  to  write  to  j'ou  to 
stay  with  us,  aud  OttiJie  came  iu  consequence  of  this  change. 
We  have  had  no  control  over  what  ensued  out  of  this: 
but  we  have  the  power  to  make  it  innocuous,  to  guide  the 
new  circumstances  to  our  own  happiness.  Cau  you  turn 
away  your  eyes  from  the  fair  aud  beautiful  prospects  I open 
to  us?  Can  you  insist  to  me,  cau  you  insist  to  us  all.  on  a 
wretched  renunciation  of  them?  Do  you  think  it  possible? 
Is  it  possible?  Will  there  be  uo  vexatious,  no  bitterness,  no 
inconvenience,  to  overcome,  if  we  resolve  to  fall  back  into 
our  old  state  ? aud  will  any  good,  any  happiness  whatever, 
arise  out  of  it?  Will  your  own  rank,  will  the  high  position 
you  have  earned,  be  au}'  pleasure  to  you.  if  you  are  to  be 
prevented  from  visiting  me,  or  from  living  with  me?  Aud, 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


303 


after  what  has  passed,  it  would  not  he  any  thing  hut  painful. 
Charlotte  and  I,  with  all  our  property,  would  only  find  our- 
selves in  a melancholy  state.  And  if,  like  other  men  of  the 
world,  you  can  persuade  yourself  that  years  and  separation 
will  eradicate  our  feelings,  will  obliterate  impressions  so 
deeply  engraved,  why,  it  is  these  very  years  wliich  it 
would  be  better  to  spend  in  happiness  and  comfort  than  in 
pain  and  misery.  But  the  last  and  most  important  point  of  all 
which  I have  to  urge  is  this  : supposing  that  we,  our  outward 
and  inward  condition  being  what  it  is,  could  nevertheless 
make  up  our  minds  to  wait  at  all  hazards,  and  bear  what  is 
laid  upon  us,  what  is  to  become  of  Ottilie,  who  would  have 
to  leave  our  family  and  mix  in  society  where  we  should  not 
be  to  care  for  her,  and  she  would  be  driven  wretchedly  to 
and  fro  in  a hard,  cold  world?  Describe  to  me  any  situation 
in  which  Ottilie,  without  me,  without  us,  could  be  happy, 
and  you  will  then  have  employed  an  argument  which  will  be 
stronger  than  every  other  ; and  if  I will  not  promise  to  yield 
to  it,  if  I will  not  undertake  at  once  to  give  up  all  my  own 
hopes,  I will  at  least  reconsider  the  question,  and  see  how 
what  you  have  said  will  affect  it.” 

This  problem  was  not  so  easy  to  solve  ; at  least,  no  satis- 
factory answer  to  it  suggested  itself  to  his  friend  ; and  noth- 
ing was  left  him  except  to  insist  again  and  again  how  grave 
and  serious,  and  in  many  senses  how  dangerous,  the  whole 
undertaking  was  ; and  at  least  that  they  ought  maturely  to 
consider  how  they  had  better  enter  upon  it.  Edward  agreed 
to  this,  and  consented  to  wait  before  he  took  any  steps,  but 
only  under  the  condition  that  his  friend  should  not  leave  him 
until  they  had  come  to  a perfect  understanding  about  it,  and 
until  the  first  measures  had  been  taken. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

People  who  are  complete  strangers  and  wholly  indifferent 
to  one  another,  are  sure,  if  they  live  a long  time  together,  v 
to  expose  something  of  their  inner  nature  ; and  thus  a certain  \ 
intimacy  will  arise.  All  the  more  was  it  to  be  expected  that 
there  would  soon  be  no  secrets  between  our  two  friends,  now 
that  they  were  again  under  the  same  roof  together,  and  in 


304 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


daily  aud  hourly  intercourse.  They  recalled  the  earlier 
stages  of  their  history  ; and  the  major  confessed  to  Edward 
that  Charlotte  had  intended  Ottilie  for  him  at  the  time  at 
which  he  returned  from  abroad,  and  hoped  that  some  time 
or  other  he  might  marry  her.  Edward  was  in  ecstasies  at 
this  disc'wery  : he  spoke  without  reserve  of  the  mutual  alfec- 
tion  of  Charlotte  and  the  major,  which,  because  it  happened 
to  fall  i;  so  conveniently  with  his  own  wishes,  he  painted  in 
very  livCiy  colors. 

Deny  it  altogether,  the  major  could  not ; at  the  same 
time,  he -could  not  altogether  acknowledge  it.  But  Edward 
insisted  on  it  only  the  more.  He  had  pictured  the  whole 
thing  to  'himself,  not  as  possible,  but  as  already  concluded  ; 
all  parties  had  only  to  resolve  on  what  they  all  wished  ; there 
would  be  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  a separation ; the  mar- 
riages saould  follow  as  soon  after  as  possible,  and  Edward 
could  travel  with  Ottilie. 

Of  all  the  pleasant  things  imagination  pictures  to  us, 
there  is,  perhaps,  none  more  charming  than  when  lovers  and 
young  married  people  look  forward  to  enjoj'iug  their  new 
relation  they  have  formed,  in  a fresh,  new  world,  and  test 
the  endurance  of  the  bond  between  them  in  so  many  chan- 
ging circumstances.  The  major  and  Charlotte  were,  in  the 
mean  time,  to  have  unrestricted  powers  to  settle  all  questions 
of  money,  property,  aud  other  such  important  worldly  mat- 
ters, and  to  do  whatever  was  right  and  proper  for  the  satis- 
faction of  all  parties.  What  Edward  dwelt  the  most  upon, 
however,  from  what  he  seemed  to  promise  himself  the  most 
advantage,  was  this : as  the  child  would  have  to  remain 
with  the  mother,  the  major  would  charge  himself  with  his 
education ; he  would  train  the  boy  according  to  his  own 
views,  and  develop  what  capacities  there  might  be  in  him. 
It  was  not  for  nothing  that  he  had  received  in  his  baptism 
the  name  of  Otto,  which  belonged  to  them  both. 

Edward  had  so  completely  arranged  every  thing  for  him- 
self, that  he  could  not  wait  another  day  to  carry  it  into  exe- 
cution. On  their  way  to  the  castle,  they  arrived  at  a small 
town,  where  Edward  had  a house,  and  where  he  was  to  stay 
to  await  the  major’s  return.  He  could  not.  however,  pre- 
vail upon  himself  to  alight  there  at  once,  aud  accompanied 
his  friend  through  the  place.  The}"  were  both  on  horseback, 
and,  falling  into  some  interesting  conversation,  rode  on  fai- 
ther  together. 

On  a sudden  they  saw,  in  the  distance,  the  new  house  on 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


305 


the  height,  with  its  red  tiles  shining  in  the  sun.  An  irre- 
sistible longing  came  over  Edward : he  would  have  it  all 
settled  that  very  evening  ; he  would  remain  concealed  in  a 
village  close  by.  The  major  was  to  urge  the  business  on 
Charlotte  with  all  his  power : he  would  take  her  prudence 
by  surprise,  and  oblige  her,  by  the  unexpectedness  of  his 
proposal,  to  make  a free  acknowledgment  of  her  feelings. 
Edward  had  transferred  his  own  wishes  to  her : h -j  felt  cer- 
tain that  he  was  only  meeting  her  half-way,  andj  that  her 
inclination  was  as  decided  as  his  own  ; and  he  looked  for 
an  immediate  consent  from  her,  because  he  himself  could 
think  of  nothing  else. 

Joyfully  he  saw  before  his  eyes  the  happy  result ; and, 
that  it  might  be  communicated  to  him  as  swiftly  as  possible, 
a few  cannon-shots  were  to  be  fired  off,  or,  if  it  w$re  dark, 
a rocket  or  two  to  be  sent  up.  ■' 

The  major  rode  to  the  castle.  He  did  not  find  Charlotte 
there ; he  learned,  that  for  the  present  she  was  staying  at 
the  new  house  : at  that  particular  time,  however,  she  was 
paying  a visit  in  the  neighborhood,  and  she  probably  would 
not  return  till  late  that  evening.  He  walked  back  to  the  inn, 
to  which  he  had  previously  sent  his  horse. 

Edward,  in  the  mean  time,  unable  to  sit  still  from  rest- 
lessness and  impatience,  stole  away  out  of  his  concealment 
along  solitary  paths  only  known  to  foresters  and  fishermen, 
into  his  park  ; and  he  found  himself  towards  evening  in  the 
copse  close  to  the  lake,  the  broad  mirror  of  which  he  now 
for  the  first  time  saw  spread  out  in  its  perfectness  before 
him. 

Ottilie  had  gone  out  that  afternoon  for  a walk  along  the 
shore.  She  had  the  child  with  her,  and  read  as  she  usually 
did  while  she  went  along.  She  had  gone  as  far  as  the  oak- 
tree  by  the  ferry.  The  boy  had  fallen  asleep  : she  sat  down, 
laid  it  on  the  ground  at  her  side,  and  continued  reading. 
The  book  was  one  of  those  which  attract  persons  of  delicate 
feeling,  and  afterwards  will  not  let  them  go  again.  She 
completely  forgot  the  time,  nor  remembered  what  a long 
way  round  it  was  by  land  to  the  new  house  ; but  she  sat  lost 
in  her  book  and  in  herself,  so  beautiful  to  look  at,  that  the 
trees  and  the  bushes  round  her  ought  to  have  been  alive, 
and  endowed  with  eyes  to  admire,  and  take  delight  in  gazing 
upon  her.  The  sun  was  sinking : a ruddy  streak  of  light 
fell  upon  her  from  behind,  tinging  with  gold  her  cheek  and 
shoulder.  Edward,  who  had  made  his  way  to  the  lake  with- 


306 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


out  being  seen,  finding  his  park  deserted,  and  seeing* no 
trace  of  a human  creature  airywhere  round  about,  went  on 
and  on.  At  last  he  broke  through  the  copse  behind  the  oak- 
tree,  and  saw  her.  At  the  same  moment  she  saw  him.  He 
rushed  up  to  her,  and  threw  himself  at  her  feet.  After  a 
long,  silent  pause,  in  which  they  both  endeavored  to  collect 
themselves,  he  explained  in  a few  words  why  and  how  he 
had  come  there.  He  had  sent  the  major  to  Charlotte,  and 
perhaps  at  that  moment  their  common  destiny  was  being 
decided.  Never  had  he  doubted  her  alfection,  and  she 
assuredly  had  never  doubted  his.  He  begged  for  her  con- 
sent ; she  hesitated  ; he  implored  her.  He  offered  to  resume 
his  old  privilege,  and  throw  his  anns  around  her,  and  em- 
brace her : she  pointed  down  to  the  child. 

Edward  looked  at  it,  and  was  amazed.  “Great  God!  ” 
he  cried  : “if  I liad  cause  to  doubt  my  wife  and  mj’  friend, 
this  face  would  bear  fearful  witness  against  them.  Is  not 
this  the  very  image  of  the  major?  I never  saw  such  a like- 
ness.’’ 

‘ ‘ Indeed  I ’ ’ replied  Ottilie  : “all  the  world  say  it  is  like 
me.” 

“ Is  it  possible?  ” Edward  answered  ; and  at  the  moment 
the  child  opened  its  eyes,  — two  large,  black,  piercing  eyes, 
deep,  and  full  of  love  : already  the  little  face  Avas  full  of 
intelligence.  He  seemed  to  know  the  two  that  were  stand- 
ing before  him.  Edward  threw  himself  down  beside  the 
child,  and  then  knelt  a second  time  before  Ottilie.  “ It  is 
you,”  he  cried:  “the  eyes  are  yours!  ah,  but  let  me  look 
into  j’ours  ! let  me  throw  a veil  over  that  ill-starred  hour 
which  gave  its  being  to  tliis  little  creature.  J^hall  I shock 
your  pure  spirit  witli  the  fearful  thought  that  man  and  wife 
Avho  are  estranged  from  each  other  can  yet  press  each  other 
to  their  heait,  and  profane  the  bonds  by  which  the  law  unites 
them  by  other  eager  wishes ? Oh,  yes  ! As  I have  said  so 
much  ; as  my  connection  with  Charlotte  must  now  be  sev- 
ered ; as  you  will  be  mine,  — why  should  I not  speak  out  the 
words  to  you  ? This  child  is  the  offspring  of  a double  adul- 
teiy.  It  should  have  been  a tie  between  my  wife  and  my- 
self ; but  it  severs  her  from  me,  and  me  from  her.  Let  it 
witness,  then,  against  me.  Let  these  fair  eyes  say  to  yours, 
that  in  the  arms  of  another  I lielonged  to  you.  You  must 
feel,  Ottilie,  oh  ! you  must  feel,  that  my  fault,  my  crime, 
I can  only  expiate  in  your  arms.” 

“Hark!  ” he  called  out,  springing  to  his  feet,  and  think- 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


307 


ing  he  had  heard  the  report  of  a gun,  and  that  it  was  the 
sign  the  major  was  to  give.  It  was  tlie  gun  of  a forester 
on  the  adjoining  hill.  Nothing  followed.  Edward  grew 
impatient. 

Ottilie  now  first  observed  that  the  sun  was  down  behind 
the  mountains  : its  last  rays  were  shining  on  the  windows  of 
the  house  above.  “Leave  me,  Edward,’’  she  cried:  “go. 
Long  as  we  have  been  parted,  much  as  we  have  borne,  yet 
remember  what  we  both  owe  to  Charlotte.  She  must  decide 
our  fate  : do  not  let  us  anticipate  her  judgment.  I am  yours 
if  she  will  permit  it  to  be  so : if  not,  I must  I’enounce  you. 
As  you  think  it  is  now  so  near  an  issue,  let  us  wait.  Go 
back  to  the  village,  where  the  major  supposes  you  to  be.  Is 
it  likely  that  a rude  cannon-shot  will  inform  you  of  the  results 
of  such  an  interview?  Perhaps  at  this  moment  he  is  seeking 
for  you.  He  will  not  have  found  Charlotte  at  home  : of  that 
I am  certain.  He  may  have  gone  to  meet  her,  for  they 
knew  at  the  castle  where  she  was.  How  many  things  may 
have  happened ! Leave  me ! she  must  be  at  home  by  this 
time  : she  is  expecting  me  with  the  baby  above.” 

Ottilie  spoke  hurriedly  : she  called  together  all  the  pos- 
sibilities. It  was  too  delightful  to  be  with  Edward,  but 
she  felt  that  he  must  now  leave  her.  “ I beseech,  I im- 
plore you,  my  beloved,”  she  cried  out,  “go  back  and  wait 
for  the  major.  ’ ’ 

“ I obey  jmur  commands,”  cried  Edward.  He  gazed  at 
her  for  a moment  with  rapturous  love,  and  then  caught  her 
close  in  his  arms.  She  wound  her  own  about  him,  and  pressed 
him  tenderly  to  her  breast.  Hope  rushed  off,  like  a star 
shooting  along  the  sky  over  their  heads.  They  then  thought, 
they  believed,  that  they  did  indeed  belong  to  one  another. 
For  the  first  time  they  exchanged  free,  unrestrained  kisses, 
and  separated  with  pain  and  effort. 

The  sun  had  gone  down.  It  was  twilight,  and  a damp  mist 
was  rising  about  the  lake.  Ottilie  stood  confused  and  agitated. 
She  looked  across  to  the  house  on  the  hill,  and  thought  she 
saw  Charlotte’s  white  dress  on  the  balcony.  It  was  a long 
way  round  by  the  end  of  the  lake,  and  she  knew  how  impa- 
tiently Charlotte  would  be  waiting  for  the  child.  She  saw  the 
plane-trees  just  opposite  her,  and  only  a narrow  interval  of 
water  divided  her  froin  the  path  which  led  straight  up  to  the 
house.  Her  nervousness  about  venturing  on  the  water  with 
the  child  vanished  in  her  present  embarrassment.  She  has- 
tened to  the  boat : she  did  not  feel  that  her  heart  was  throb- 


308 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


bing,  that  her  feet  were  tottering,  that  her  senses  were 
threatening  to  fail  her. 

She  jumped  in,  seized  the  oar,  and  pushed  off.  She  had 
to  use  force : she  pushed  again.  The  boat  shot  off,  and 
glided,  swaying  and  rocking,  into  the  open  water.  With  the 
child  on  her  left  arm,  the  book  in  her  left  hand,  and  the  oar 
in  her  right,  she  lost  her  footing,  and  fell  over  the  seat : the 
oar  slipped  from  her  on  one  side  ; and,  as  she  tried  to  recover 
herself,  the  child  and  the  book  slipped  on  the  other,  all  into 
the  water.  She  caught  the  floating  dress  ; but,  hung  entan- 
gled as  she  was  herself,  she  was  unable  to  rise.  Her  right 
hand  was  free,  but  she  could  not  reach  round  to  help  lierself 
up  with  it : at  last  she  succeeded.  She  drew  the  child  out 
of  the  water  ; but  its  ejms  were  closed,  and  it  had  ceased  to 
breathe. 

In  a moment  she  recovered  all  her  self-possession,  hut 
so  mueh  the  greater  was  her  agony  : the  boat  was  driving  fast 
into  the  middle  of  the  lake,  the  oar  was  swimming  far 
away  from  her.  She  saw  no  one  on  the  shore  ; and,  indeed, 
if  she  had,  it  would  have  been  of  no  service  to  lier.  Cut  off 
from  all  assistance,  she  was  floating  on  the  faithless,  unsta- 
ble element. 

She  souglit  help  from  herself  : she  had  often  heard  of  the 
recovery  of  the  drowned  ; she  had  herself  witnessed  an  in- 
stance of  it  on  the  evening  of  her  birthday  ; she  took  off  the 
child’s  clothes,  and  dried  it  with  her  muslin  dress.  She 
threw  open  her  bosom,  laying  it  bare  for  tlie  first  time  to 
the  open  sky.  P'or  the  first  time  she  pressed  a living  being 
to  her  pure,  naked  breast.  Alas ! and  it  was  not  a living 
being.  The  cold  limbs  of  the  ill-starred  little  creature 
chilled  her  to  the  heart.  Streams  of  tears  gushed  from  her 
eyes,  and  lent  a show  of  life  and  warmth  to  the  outside  of 
the  torpid  limbs.  She  persevered  with  her  efforts,  wrapped 
the  child  in  her  shawl,  drew  him  close  to  Iier.  stroked  him, 
breathed  on  him,  and  with  tears  and  kisses  labored  to  sup- 
ply the  help  which,  cut  off  as  she  was,  she  was  unable  to 
find. 

It  was  all  in  vain : the  child  lay  motionless  in  her  arms, 
motionless  the  boat  floated  on  the  glassy  water.  But  even 
here  her  beautiful  spirit  did  not  leave  her  forsaken.  She 
turned  to  the  Power  above.  She  sank  down  upon  her 
knees  in  the  boat,  and  with  both  arms  raised  the  motion- 
less child  above  her  innocent  breast,  like  marble  in  its 
whiteness ; alas ! too  lilie  marble,  cold ; with  moist  eyes 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


309 


she  looked  up  and  cried  for  help,  where  a tender  heart 
hopes  to  find  it  in  its  fulness,  when  all  other  help  has 
failed. 

The  stars  were  beginning  one  by  one  to  glimmer  down 
upon  her ; she  turned  to  them,  and  not  in  vain  : a soft  air 
stole  over  the  surface,  and  wafted  the  boat  under  the  plane- 
trees. 


CHAPTER  XrV. 

She  huiTied  to  the  new  house,  and  called  the  surgeon, 
and  gave  the  child  into  his  hands.  It  was  at  once  car- 
ried to  Charlotte’s  bedroom.  Cool  and  collected  from  a 
wide  experience,  he  submitted  the  tender  body  to  the  usual 
process.  Ottilie  aided  him  through  it  all.  She  prepared  every 
thing,  fetched  eveiy  thing,  but  as  if  she  were  moving  in  an- 
other world  ; for  the  height  of  misfortune,  like  the  height  of 
happiness,  alters  the  aspect  of  every  object.  And  it  was  only 
when,  after  every  resource  had  been  exhausted,  the  good  man 
shook  his  head,  and,  to  her  questions  whether  there  was  hope, 
first  was  silent,  and  then  softly  answered  No  ! that  she  left 
the  apartment,  and  had  scarcely  entered  the  sitting-room, 
when  she  fell  fainting,  with  her  face  upon  the  carpet,  unable 
to  reach  the  sofa. 

At  that  moment  Charlotte  was  heard  driving  up.  The  sur- 
geon implored  the  servants  to  keep  back,  and  allow  him  to  go 
to  meet  her  and  prepare  her.  But  he  was  too  late  : while  he 
was  speaking,  she  had  entered  the  drawing-room.  She  found 
Ottilie  on  the  ground,  and  one  of  the  girls  of  the  house  came 
running  and  screaming  to  her  open-mouthed.  The  surgeon 
entered  at  the  same  moment,  and  she  was  informed  of  every 
thing.  She  could  not  at  once,  however,  give  up  all  hope.  She 
was  rushing  up-stairs  to  the  child,  but  the  physician  besought 
her  to  remain  where  she  "was.  He  went  himself,  to  deceive 
her  with  a show  of  fresh  exertions  ; and  she  sat  down  upon 
the  sofa.  Ottilie  was  stiU  lying  on  the  ground  : Charlotte  raised 
her,  and  supported  her  against  herself  ; and  her  beantiful  head 
sank  down  upon  her  knee.  Her  medical  friend  went  to  and 
fro  ; he  appeared  to  be  busy  about  the  child  ; his  real  care  was 
for  the  ladies  : and  so  came  on  midnio:ht,  and  the  stillness  of 
death  grew  deeper  and  deeper.  Charlotte  did  not  try  to  con- 


310 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


ceal  from  herself  any  longer  that  her  child  would  never  return 
to  life  again.  She  desired  to  see  it  now.  It  had  been  wrapped 
up  in  warm  woollen  coverings.  And  it  was  brought  down  as 
it  was,  lying  in  its  cot,  which  was  placed  at  her  side  on  the 
sofa.  The  little  face  w'as  uncovered  ; and  there  it  lay  in  its 
calm,  sweet  beauty. 

The  report  of  the  accident  soon  spread  through  the  village  : 
every  one  was  roused,  and  the  story  reached  the  hotel.  The 
major  hun-ied  up  the  well-known  road  ; he  went  round  and 
round  the  house  ; at  last  he  met  a servant  who  was  going  to 
one  of  the  out-buildings  to  fetch  something.  He  learned  from 
him  the  state  of  things,  and  desired  him  to  tell  the  surgeon 
that  he  was  there.  The  latter  came  out,  not  a little  surprised 
at  the  appearance  of  his  old  patron.  He  told  him  exactly  what 
had  happened,  and  undertook  to  prepare  Charlotte  to  see  him. 
He  then  went  in,  began  some  conversation  to  draw  her  at- 
tention to  other  matters,  and  led  her  imagination  from  one 
object  to  another,  till  at  last  he  brought  it  to  rest  upon  her 
friend,  and  the  depth  of  feeling  and  of  sjnnpathy  which  would 
surely  be  called  out  in  him.  From  the  imaginative  she  was 
brought  at  once  to  the  real.  Enough  ! she  was  informed  that 
he  was  at  the  door,  that  he  knew  every  thing,  and  desired  to 
be  admitted. 

The  major  entered.  Charlotte  received  him  with  a miser- 
able smile.  He  stood  before  her : she  lifted  off  the  green- 
silk  covering  under  which  the  body  was  lying ; and  by  the 
dim  light  of  a taper  he  saw  before  him,  not  without  a secret 
shudder,  the  stiffened  image  of  himself.  Charlotte  pointed 
to  a chair ; and  there  they  sat  opposite  to  one  another,  with- 
out speaking,  through  the  night.  Ottilie  was  still  lying 
motionless  on  Charlotte’s  knee : she  breathed  softly,  and 
slept,  or  seemed  to  sleep. 

The  morning  dawned,  the  lights  went  out : the  two  friends 
appeared  to  awake  out  of  a heavy  dream.  Charlotte  looked 
towards  the  major,  and  said  quietly,  “Tell  me  through  what 
circumstances  you  have  been  brought  hither,  to  take  part  in 
this  mournful  scene.” 

“The  present  is  not  a time,”  the  major  answered,  in  the 
same  low  tone  as  that  in  which  Charlotte  had  spoken,  for 
fear  lest  she  might  disturb  Ottilie,  “this  is  not  a time,  and 
this  is  not  a place,  for  reserve.  The  condition  in  which  I 
find  you  is  so  fearful  that  even  the  earnest  matter  on  which 
I am  here  loses  its  importance  by  the  side  of  it.”  He  then 
informed  her,  quite  calmly  and  sinq'ily.  of  the  object  of  his 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


311 


mission  in  so  far  as  he  was  the  ambassador  of  Edward,  of 
the  object  of  his  coming  in  so  far  as  his  own  free-will  and 
his  own  interests  were  concerned  in  it.  Fie  laid  both  before 
her  delicately  but  uprightly  : Charlotte  listened  quietly,  and 
showed  neither  surprise  nor  unwillingness. 

As  soon  as  the  major  had  finished,  she  replied,  in  so  low  a 
voice,  that,  to  catch  her  words,  he  was  obliged  to  draw  his 
chair  closer  to  her,  “In  such  a case  as  this  I have  never 
before  found  myself  ; but  in  similar  cases  I have  always 
said  to  myself,  ‘How  will  it  be  to-morrow?’  I am  fully 
aware  that  the  fate  of  many  persons  is  now  in  my  hands, 
and  what  I have  to  do  is  soon  said  without  scruple  or  hesita- 
tion. I consent  to  the  separation  ; 1 ought  to  have  made  up 
my  mind  to  it  before  : by  my  unwillingness  and  reluctance  1 
have  destroj^ed  my  child.  There  are  certain  things  on  which 
destiny  obstinately  insists.  In  vain  may  reason,  virtue, 
duty,  every  sacred  feeling,  place  themselves  in  its  way. 
Something  shall  be  done  which  to  it  seems  good,  and  which 
to  us  seems  not  good  ; and  it  forces  its  own  way  through  at 
last,  let  us  conduct  ourselves  as  we  will. 

“But  what  am  1 saying?  It  is  ljut  my  own  desire,  my 
own  purpose,  against  which  I acted  so  unthinkingly,  which 
destiny  is  again  bringing  in  my  way.  Did  I not  long  ago, 
-in  my  thoughts,  design  Edward  and  Ottilie  for  one  another? 
Did  I not  myself  labor  to  bring  them  together?  And  you, 
my  friend,  you  yourself  were  an  accomplice  in  mj'  plot. 
Why,  why  could  I not  distinguish  mere  man’s  obstinacy 
from  real  love?  Why  did  I accept  his  hand,  when  I could 
have  made  him  happy  as  a friend,  and  when  another  could 
have  made  him  happy  as  a wife?  And  now  look  here  on  this 
unhappy  slumberer.  I tremble  at  the  moment  when  she  will 
wake  from  her  deathlike  sleei)  into  consciousness.  How  can 
she  endure  to  live?  How  shall  she  ever  console  herself,  if 
she  may  not  hope  to  make  good  that  to  Edward  of  which, 
as  the  instrument  of  the  most  wonderful  destiny,  she  has 
deprived  him?  And  she  can  make  it  all  good  again  by  the 
passion,  by  the  devotion,  with  which  she  loves  him.  If  love 
be  able  to  bear  all  things,  it  is  able  to  do  yet  more ; it  can 
restore  all  things.  Of  myself  at  such  a moment  I may  not 
think. 

“ Do  you  go  quietly  away,  my  dear  major : say  to  Edward 
that  I consent  to  the  separation,  that  I leave  it  to  him,  to 
you,  and  to  Mittler  to  settle  whatever  is  to  be  done.  I have 
no  anxiety  for  my  own  future  condition ; it  may  be  what  it 


312 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


will ; it  is  nothing  to  me.  I will  subscribe  whatever  paper 
is  submitted  to  me,  only  he  must  uot  require  me  to  join 
actively.  I cannot  have  to  think  about  it  or  give  advice.” 

The  major  rose  to  go.  She  stretched  out  her  hand  to  him 
across  Ottilie.  He  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  aud  whispered 
gently,  “ And  for  myself,  may  I hope  any  thing?  ” 

“Do  not  ask  me  now,”  replied  Charlotte.  “I  will  tell 
3mu  another  time.  We  have  not  deserved  to  be  miserable, 
but  neither  can  we  say  that  we  have  deserved  to  be  happy 
together.  ’ ’ 

The  major  left  her,  and  went,  feeling  for  Charlotte  to  the 
bottom  of  his  heart,  but  not  being  able  to  be  soriy  for  the 
fate  of  the  i)oor  child.  Such  an  offering  seemed  necessaiy 
to  him  for  their  general  happiness.  He  pictured  Ottilie  to 
himself  with  a child  of  her  own  iu  her  arms,  as  the  most 
perfect  compensation  for  the  one  of  which  she  had  deprived 
Edward.  Fie  pictured  himself  with  his  own  son  on  his  knee, 
who  should  have  better  right  to  resemble  him  than  the  one 
W'hicli  was  departed. 

With  such  flattering  hopes  and  fancies  passing  through  his 
mind,  he  returned  to  the  inn  ; and.  on  his  waj’  back,  he  met 
Edward,  who  had  been  waiting  for  him  the  whole  night 
through  iu  the  open  air,  since  neither  rocket  nor  report  of 
cannon  would  bring  liim  news  of  the  successful  issue  of  his 
undertaking.  He  had  alreadj’  heard  of  the  misfortune  ; and 
he  too,  instead  of  being  sony  for  the  poor  thing,  regarded 
what  had  befalleu  it,  without  being  exactly  ready  to  confess 
it  to  himself,  as  a convenient  accident,  through  which  the 
only  impediment  in  the  wa}'  of  his  happiness  was  at  once 
removed. 

The  major  at  once  informed  him  of'  his  wife’s  resolution  ; 
and  he  therefore  easily  allowed  himself  to  be  prevailed  upon 
to  return  again  with  him  to  the  village,  aud  from  thence  to 
go  for  a while  to  the  little  town,  where  thev  would  consider 
what  was  next  to  be  done,  and  make  their  arrangements. 

After  the  major  had  left  her,  Charlotte  sat  on,  buried  in 
her  own  reflections ; but  it  was  onlv  for  a few  minutes. 
Ottilie  suddenl}'  raised  herself  from  her  lap,  aud  looked  full, 
with  her  large  e3’es,  iu  her  friend’s  face.  Then  she  got  up 
from  the  ground,  and  stood  upright  before  her. 

“This  is  the  second  time,”  began  the  noble  girl  with  an 
irresistible  solemnit3'  of  manner,  "this  is  the  second  time 
that  the  same  thing  has  happened  to  me.  You  once  said  to 
me  that  things  of  the  same  kind  often  happen  to  people  in 


ELECTIVE  AEFINITIES. 


313 


their  lives  in  the  same  kind  of  way  ; and,  if  they  do,  it  is 
always  at  important  moments.  I now  find  that  what  you 
said  is  true,  and  I have  to  make  a confession  to  you. 
(Shortly  after  my  mother’s  death,  when  I was  a very  little 
child,  I was  sitting  one  day  on  a footstool,  close  to  you. 
You  were  on  the  sofa,  as  you  are  at  this  moment;  and  my 
head  rested  on  your  knees.  I was  not  asleep,  I was  not 
awake  : 1 was  in  a trance.  I knew  every  thing  which  was 
passing  about  me.  1 heard  every  word  which  was  said,  with 
the  greatest  distinctness : and  yet  I could  not  stir,  I could 
not  speak  ; and,  if  1 had  wished  it,  I could  not  have  given  a 
hint  that  I was  conscious.  On  that  occasion  you  were 
speaking  about  me  to  one  of  your  friends  : you  were  com- 
miserating my  fate,  left,  as  I was,  a poor  orphan  in  the 
world.  You  described  my  dependent  position,  and  how 
unfortunate  a future  was  before  me,  unless  some  very  happy 
star  watched  over  me.  I understood  well  what  you  said.  I 
saw,  perhaps  too  clearly,  what  you  appeared  to  hope  of  me, 
and  what  you  thought  I ought  to  do.  I made  rules  to 
myself,  according  to  such  limited  insight  as  I had : and  by 
these  I have  long  lived  ; by  these,  at  the  time  when  you  so 
kindly  took  charge  of  me,  and  had  me  with  you  in  j’our 
house,  I regulated  whatever  I did,  and  whatever  1 left 
undone. 

“ But  I have  strayed  from  my  course  ; I have  broken  my 
rules  ; 1 have  lost  the  very  power  of  feeling  them.  And 
now,  after  a dreadful  occurrence,  you  have  again  made  clear 
to  me  my  situation,  which  is  more  pitiable  than  the  first. 
While  lying  in  a half-torpor  on  your  lap,  I have  again,  as  if 
out  of  another  world,  heard  every  syllable  which  you  uttered. 
I know  from  you  how  all  is  with  me.  The  thought  of 
myself  makes  me  shudder ; but  again,  as  I did  then,  in  my 
half-sleep  of  death,  I have  marked  out  my  new  path  for 
myself. 

“I  am  determined,  as  I was  before;  and  what  I have 
determined  I must  tell  you  at  once.  I will  never  be  Edward’s 
wife.  In  a terrible  manner  God  has  opened  my  eyes  to  see 
the  sin  in  which  I was  entangled.  I will  atone  for  it,  and 
let  no  one  think  to  move  me  from  my  purpose.  It  is  by 
this,  my  dearest,  kindest  friend,  that  you  must  govern  your 
own  conduct.  Send  for  the  major  to  come  back  to  you. 
Write  to  him  that  no  steps  must  be  taken.  It  made  me  mis- 
erable that  I could  not  stir  or  speak  when  he  went : I tried' 
to  rise,  I tried  to  cry  out.  Oh,  why  did  you  let  him  go  from 
you  with  such  sinful  hopes  ! ” 


314 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


Charlotte  saw  Ottilie’s  condition,  and  she  felt  for  it;  but 
she  hoped,  that,  by  time  and  persuasion,  she  might  be  able  to 
prevail  upon  her.  On  lier  uttering  a few  words,  however, 
which  pointed  to  a future,  to  a time  when  her  sufferings 
would  be  alleviated,  and  when  there  might  be  better  room 
for  hope,  “No!”  Ottilie  cried  with  vehemence,  “do  not 
endeavor  to  move  me  : do  not  seek  to  deceive  me.  At  the 
moment  at  which  1 learn  that  you  have  consented  to  the 
separation,  1 will  expiate  my  trespass,  my  crime,  in  that 
same  lake.” 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Friends  and  relations,  and  all  persons  living  together  in 
j the  same  house,  are  apt,  when  life  is  going  smoothly  and 
]]  peacefully  with  them,  to  make  what  they  are  doing,  or  what 
: they  are  going  to  do,  even  more  than  is  right  or  necessary, 

i a subject  of  constant  conversation.  They  talk  to  each  other 
) of  their  plans  and  their  occupations,  and,  without  exactly 
I taking  one  another’s  advice,  consider  and  discuss  together  the 
; entire  progress  of  their  lives.  But  this  is  far  from  being  the 
j case  in  serious  moments  : just  when  it  would  seem  men  most  |9 
* require  the  assistance  and  support  of  others,  every  one  with-ifl 
draws  singly  within  themselves,  eveiy  one  to  act  for  himself,  M 
every  one  to  work  in  his  own  fashion  ; the}’  conceal  from  one® 
another  the  particular  means  they  employ;  and  only  the|?| 
result,  the  object,  the  thing  they  realize,  is  again  made  com- 1 
mon  property.  § 

After  so  many  strange  and  unfortunate  incidents,  a sort! 
of  silent  seriousness  had  jiassed  over  the  two  ladies,  whichB 
showed  itself  in  a sweet  mutual  effort  to  spare  each  other's 
feelings.  The  child  had  been  buried  privately  in  the  chapel. 

It  rested  there  as  the  first  offering  to  a destiny  full  of  ominous 
foreshadowings. 

Charlotte,  as  much  as  she  could,  turned  back  to  life  and  . 
occupation  ; and  here  slie  first  found  Ottilie  standing  in  need! 
of  her  assistance.  She  occupied  herself  almost  entirely  withj 
her,  without  letting  it  be  observed.  She  knew  how  deeply  ■ 
the  noble  girl  loved  Edward.  She  had  discovered  by  degrees: 
the  scene  which  had  preceded  the  accident,  and  had  gathered^ 
every  circumstance  of  it,  partly  from  Ottilie  herself,  pailly^ 
from  the  letters  of  the  major. 

i 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


315 


Ottilie,  on  her  side,  made  Charlotte’s  immediate  life  much 
more  easy  for  her.  She  was  open  and  even  talkative ; but 
she  never  spoke  of  the  present,  or  of  what  had  lately  passed. 
She  had  been  a close  and  thoughtful  observer.  She  knew 
much,  and  now  it  all  came  to  the  surface.  She  entertained, 
she  amused,  Charlotte  ; and  the  latter  still  nourished  a hope 
in  secret  to  see  her  married  to  Edward  after  all. 

But  something  very  different  was  passing  in  Ottilie.  She 
had  disclosed  the  secret  of  the  course  of  her  life  to  her 
friend,  and  she  showed  no  more  of  her  previous  restraint  and 
submissiveness.  By  her  repentance  and  resolution  she  felt 
herself  freed  from  the  burden  of  her  fault  and  her  misfortune. 
She  had  no  more  violence  to  do  to  herself.  In  the  bottom  of 
her  neart  she  had  forgiven  herself  solely"  under  condition  of 
the  fullest  renunciation,  and  it  was  a condition  which  would 
remain  binding  for  all  time  to  come. 

So  passed  away  some  time ; and  Charlotte  now  felt  how 
much  house  and  park,  and  lake  and  rocks  and  trees,  served 
to  keep  alive  in  them  all  their  most  painful  reminiscences. 
That  change  of  scene  was  necessary  was  plain  enough,  but 
how  it  was  to  be  effected  was  not  so  easy  to  decide. 

Were  the  two  ladies  to  remain  together?  Edward’s  pre- 
viously expressed  will  appeared  to  enjoin  it,  his  declarations 
and  his  threats  appeared  to  make  it  necessary : only  it  could . 
not  be  now  mistaken  that  Charlotte  and  Ottilie,  with  all  their 
good-will,  with  all  their  sense,  with  all  their  efforts  to  conceal 
it,  could  not  avoid  finding  themselves  in  a painful  situation 
towards  one  another.  Their  conversation  was  guarded. 
They  were  often  obliged  only  half  to  understand  some  allu- 
sion ; more  often,  expressions  were  misinterpreted,  if  not  by 
their  understandings,  at  any  rate  by  their  feelings.  They 
were  afraid  to  give  pain  to  one  another,  and  this  very  fear 
itself  produced  the  evil  which  they  were  seeking  to  avoid. 

If  they  were  to  try  change  of  scene,  and  at  the  same  time 
(at  any  rate  for  a while)  to  part,  the  old  question  came  up 
again.  Where  was 'Ottilie  to  go?  There  was  the  grand,  ricli 
family,  who  still  wanted  a desirable  companion  for  their 
daughter,  their  attempts  to  find  a person  whom  they  could 
trust  having  hitherto  proved  ineffectual.  Already  during  her 
last  sojourn  at  the  castle,  the  baroness  had  urged  Charlotte  to 
send  Ottilie  there,  and  lately  again  in  her  letters.  Charlotte 
now  a second  time  proposed  it ; but  Ottilie  expressly  declined 
going  anywhere,  where  she  would  be  thrown  into  what  is 
called  the  great  world. 


316 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


“ Do  not  think  me  narrow  or  self-willed,  my  dear  aunt,” 
she  said : “let  me  utter  what,  in  any  other  case,  it  would  he 
my  duty  to  conceal.  A person  who  has  fallen  into  uncom- 
mon misfortunes,  however  guiltless  he  may  be,  carries  a 
frightful  mark  upon  him.  His  presence,  in  every  one  who 
sees  him  and  is  aware  of  his  history,  excites  a kind  of  horror. 
People  see  in  him  the  terrible  fate  which  has  beeu  laid  uiion 
him,  and  he  is  the  object  of  a diseased  aud  nervous  curiosity. 
It  is  so  with  a house,  it  is  so  with  a town,  where  any  terrible 
action  has  been  done  : people  enter  them  with  awe  : the  light 
of  day  shiues  less  brightly  there,  aud  the  stars  seem  to  lose 
their  lustre., 

“ Perhaps  we  ought  to  excuse  it,  but  how  extreme  is  the 
indiscretion  with  which  people  behave  towards  such  unfortu- 
nate persons  with  their  foolish  importunities  and  awkward 
kindness  ! Pardon  me  for  speaking  in  this  way  ; but  that 
poor  girl  whom  Luciana  tempted  out  of  her  retirement,  and 
with  such  mistaken  good-uature  tried  to  force  into  society 
and  amusement,  has  haunted  me  and  made  me  miserable. 
The  poor  creatui’e,  when  she  was  so  frightened  and  tried  to 
escape,  and  then  sank  and  swooned  away,  aud  I caught  her 
in  my  arms,  aud  the  party  came  all  crowding  round  in  terror 
and  curiosity,  — little  did  I think,  then,  that  the  same  fate  was 
in  store  for  me.  But  my  feeling  for  her  is  as  deep  and  warm 
and  fresh  as  ever  it  was ; and  now  I may  direct  my  compas- 
sion upon  myself,  and  secure  myself  from  being  the  object 
of  any  similar  exposure.” 

“ But,  my  dear  child,”  answered  Charlotte,  “you  will  never 
be  able  to  withdraw  yourself  where  no  one  can  see  you ; we 
have  no  cloisters  now  ; otherwise,  there,  with  your  present 
feelings,  would  be  }"our  resource.” 

“Solitude  would  not  give  me  the  resource  for  which  I 
wish,  my  dear  aunt,”  answered  Ottilie.  “ The  one  true  aud 
valuable  resource  is  to  be  looked  for  where  we  cau  be  active 
aud  useful : all  the  self-denials  aud  all  the  penances  on  earth 
will  fail  to  deliver  us  from  an  evil-omened  destinj’  if  it  be 
determined  to  persecute  us.  Let  me  sit  still  in  idleness,  and 
serve  as  a spectacle  for  the  world,  and  it  will  overpower 
and  crush  me.  But  find  me  some  peaceful  employment, 
where  I can  go  steadily  and  uuweariedly  on  doing  my  duty, 
aud  I shall  be  able  to  bear  the  eyes  of  men  when  I need  uot 
shrink  under  the  eyes  of  God.” 

“Unless  I am  much  mistaken,”  replied  Charlotte,  “your 
incliuatioii  is,  to  return  to  the  school.” 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


317 


“Yes,”  Ottilie  answered  : “ I do  not  deny  it.  I think  it 
a happy  destination  to  train  up  others  in  the  beaten  way,  after 
having  been  trained  in  the  strangest  myself.  And  do  we  not 
see  the  same  great  fact  in  history?  Some  moral  calamity 
drives  men  out  into  the  wilderness  ; but  they  are  not  allowed 
to  remain,  as  they  had  hoped,  in  their  concealment  there. 
They  are  summoned  back  into  the  world,  to  lead  the  wan- 
derers into  the  right  way ; and  who  are  litter  for  such  a 
service  than  those  who  have  been  initiated  into  the  laby- 
rinths of  life?  They  are  commanded  to  be  the  support  of 
the  unfortunate  ; and  who  can  better  fulfil  that  command 
than  those  who  have  no  more  misfortunes  to  fear  upon 
earth  ? ’ ’ 

“You  are  selecting  an  uncommon  profession  for  your- 
self,” replied  Charlotte.  “ I shall  not  oppose  you,  however. 
Let  it  be  as  you  wish,  only  I hope  it  will  be  but  for  a short 
time.” 

“ Most  warmly  do  I thank  you,”  said  Ottilie,  “ for  giving 
me  leave  to  try  to  gain  this  experiment.  If  I am  not  flatter- 
ing myself  too  highly,  I am  sure  I shall  succeed  : wherever 
I am,  I shall  remember  the  many  trials  which  I went  through 
myself,  and  how  small,  how  infinitely  small,  they  were  com- 
pared to  those  which  I afterwards  had  to  undergo.  It  will 
be  my  happiness  to  watch  the  embarrassments  of  the  little 
creatures  as  they  grow ; to  cheer  them  in  their  childish  sor- 
rows, and  guide  them  back,  with  a light  hand,  out  of  their 
little  aberrations.  The  fortunate  is  not  the  person  to  be  of 
help  to  the  fortunate  : it  is  in  the  nature  of  man  to  require 
ever  more  and  more  of  himself  and  others,  the  more  he  has 
received.  The  unfortunate  only  recover,  while  knowing, 
from  their  affliction,  how  to  foster,  both  in  themselves  and 
others,  the  feeling  that  every  moderate  good,  ought  to  be 
enjoyed  with  rapture.” 

“ I have  but  one  objection  to  make  to  what  you  propose,” 
said  Charlotte,  after  some  thought,  “ although  that  one 
seems  to  me  of  great  importance.  I am  not  thinking  of  you, 
but  of  another  person  : you  well  know  how  that  good,  right- 
minded,  excellent  assistant  is  disposed  towards  you.  In  the 
way  in  which  you  desire  to  proceed,  you  will  become  every 
day  more  valuable  and  more  indispensable  to  him.  Already 
he  himself  believes  that  he  can  never  live  happily  without 
you  ; and  hereafter,  when  he  has  become  accustomed  to  have 
ybu  to  work  with  him,  he  will  be  unable  to  carry  on  his  busi- 
ness if  he  loses  you : you  will  have  assisted  him  at  the 
beginning,  only  to  injure  him  in  the  end.” 


318 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES'. 


“ Destiny  has  not  dealt  with  nae  gently,”  replied  Ottilie ; 
“ and  whoever  loves  me  has,  perhaps,  not  much  better  to 
expect.  Our  friend  is  so  good  and  so  sensible,  that  I hope 
he  will  be  able  to  reconcile  himself  to  remaining  in  a simple 
relation  with  me  : he  will  learn  to  see  in  me  a consecrated 
person,  lying  under  the  shadow  of  an  awful  calamity,  and 
only  able  to  support  herself,  and  bear  up  against  it,  by  de- 
voting herself  to  that  Holy  Being  who  is  invisibly  around  us, 
and  alone  is  able  to  shield  us  from  the  dark  powers  which 
threaten  to  overwhelm  us.” 

Charlotte  privately  reflected  on  all  the  dear  girl  had  so 
warmly  uttered  : on  many  different  occasions,  although  only 
in  the  gentlest  manner,  slie  had  hinted  at  the  possibility 
of  Ottilie’s  being  brought  again  in  contact  with  Edward ; 
but  the  slightest  mention  of  it,  the  faintest  hope,  the  least 
suspicion,  seemed  to  wound  Ottilie  to  the  quick.  One  day, 
w'hen  she  could  not  evade  it,  she  expressed  herself  to  Char- 
lotte clearly  on  the  subject. 

“ If  your  resolution  to  renounce  Edward,”  returned  Char- 
lotte, “is  so  firm  and  unalterable,  then  you  had  better  avoid 
the  danger  of  seeing  him  again.  At  a distance  from  the 
object  of  our  love,  the  warmer  our  affection,  the  stronger  is 
the  control  which  we  fancy  that  we  can  exercise  on  our- 
selves ; because  the  wliole  force  of  the  passion,  diverted 
from  its  outward  objects,  turns  inwards  on  ourselves.  But 
how  soon,  how  swiftly  is  our  mistake  made  plain  to  us,  wlien 
the  tliiuo;  we  thought  we  could  renounce  stands  again  before 
our  eyes  as  indispensable  to  us  ! You  must  now  do  what 
you  consider  best  suited  to  your  circumstances.  Look  well 
into  yourself : cliange,  if  you  prefer  it,  the  resolution  which 
you  have  just  expressed.  But  do  it  of  yourself,  with  a free- 
consenting  li^art.  Do  not  allow  yourself  to  be  drawn  in  by 
an  accident : do  not  let  3murself  be  surprised  into  3'our  former 
position.  It  Mill  place  you  at  issue  vith  j’ourself.  and  m ill 
be  intolerable  to  }'ou.  As  I said,  before  j'ou  take  this  step, 
before  you  remove  from  me,  and  enter  upon  a nev-  life,  which 
will  lead  you  no  one  knows  in  viiat  direction,  consider  once 
more  Miiether  really,  indeed,  j’ou  can  renounce  Edward  for 
the  Miiole  time  to  come.  If  3’ou  have  faithfullv  made  up  your 
mind  that  you  Mill  do  this,  then  will  you  enter  into  an  en- 
gagement M ith  me,  that  you  m ill  never  admit  him  into  your 
presence,  and,  if  he  seeks  you  out,  and  forces  himself  upon 
you,  that  you  will  not  exchange  M'ords  Mith  him?  ” 

Ottilie  did  not  hesitate  a moment : she  gave  Charlotte  the 
promise,  M'hich  she  had  already’  made  to  herself. 


ELECTIVE  AFEmiTIES. 


319 


Now,  however,  Charlotte  began  to  be  haunted  with  Ed- 
ward’s threat,  that  he  would  only  consent  to  renounce  Ottilie 
as  long  as  she  was  not  parted  from  Charlotte.  Since  that 
time,  indeed,  circumstances  were  so  altered,  so  many  things 
had  happened,  that  an  engagement  which  was^wrung  from 
him  in  a moment  of  excitement  might  well  be  supposed  to 
have  been  cancelled.  She  was  unwilling,  however,  in  the 
remotest  sense,  to  venture  any  thing,  or  to  undertake  any 
thing,  which  might  displease  him  ; and  Mittler  was  therefore 
to  find  Edward,  and  inquire  what,  as  things  now  were,  he 
wished  to  be  done. 

Since  the  death  of  the  child,  Mittler  had  often  been  at  the 
castle  to  see  Charlotte,  although  only  for  a few  moments  at  a 
time.  The  unhappy  accident,  which  had  made  her  reconcilia- 
tion with  her  husband  in  the  highest  degree  improbable,  had 
produced  a most  painful  effect  upon  him.  But  ever,  as  his 
nature  was,  hoping  and  striving,  he  rejoiced  secretly  at  the 
resolution  of  Ottilie.  He  trusted  to  the  softening  influence 
of  passing  time ; he  hoped  that  it  might  still  be  possible  to 
keep  the  husband  and  the  wife  from  separating  ; and  he  tried 
to  regard  these  convulsions  of  passion  only  as  trials  of  wedded 
love  and  fldelity. 

Charlotte,  at  the  very  first,  had  informed  the  major  by 
letter  of  Ottilie’s  declaration.  She  had  entreated  him  most 
earnestly  to  prevail  on  Edward  to  take  no  further  steps  for 
the  present.  They  should  keep  , quiet,  and  wait,  and  see 
whether  the  poor  girl  would  recover  her  spirits.  She  had  let 
him  know  from  time  to  tune  whatever  was  necessary  of  what 
had  more  lately  fallen  from  her.  And  now  Mittler  had  to 
undertake  the  really  difficult  commission  of  preparing  Edward 
for  an  alteration  in  her  situation.  Mittler,  however,  Avell 
knowing  that  men  can  be  brought  more  easily  to  submit  to 
what  is  already  done  than  to  give  their  consent  to  what  is 
yet  to  be  done,  persuaded  Charlotte  that  it  would  be  better 
to  send  Ottilie  off  at  once  to  the  school. 

Consequently,  as  soon  as  Mittler  was  gone,  preparations 
were  at  once  made  for  the  journey.  Ottilie  put  her  things 
together ; and  Charlotte  observed  that  neither  the  beautiful 
box,  nor  any  thing  out  of  it,  was  to  go  with  her.  Ottilie  had 
said  nothing  to  her  on  the  subject ; and  she  took  no  notice, 
but  let  her  alone.  The  day  of  departirre  came  : Charlotte’s 
carriage  was  to  take  Ottilie  the  first  day  as  far  as  a place 
where  they  were  well  known,  where  she  was  to  pass  the  night ; 
and  on  the  second  she  would  go  on  in  it  to  the  school.  It 


820 


ELECTIVE  AFFI2JITIES. 


was  settled  that  Nanny  was  to  accompany  her,  and  remain 
as  her  attendant. 

This  capricious  little  creature  had  found  her  way  back  to 
lier  mistress  after  the  death  of  the  child,  and  now  hung  about 
her  as  warmly  and  passionately  as  ever ; indeed,  she  seemed, 
with  her  loquacity  and  attentiveness,  as  if  she  wished  to  make 
good  her  past  neglect,  and  henceforth  devote  herself  entirely 
to  Ottilie’s  service.  She  was  quite  beside  herself  now  for  joy 
at  the  thought  of  travelling  with  her,  and  of  seeing  strange 
l)laces,  when  she  had  hitherto  never  been  away  from  the 
scene  of  her  birth  ; and  she  ran  from  the  castle  to  the  village 
to  carry  the  news  of  her  good  fortune  to  her  parents  and  her 
relations,  and  to  take  leave.  Unluckily  for  herself,  she  went 
among  other  places  into  a room  where  a person  was  who  had 
the  measles,  and  caught  the  infection,  which  came  out  upon 
her  at  once.  The  journey  could  not  be  postponed.  Ottilie 
herself  was  urgent  to  go.  She  had  travelled  once  already 
the  same  road.  She  knew  the  people  of  the  hotel  where  she 
was  to  sleep.  The  coachman  from  the  castle  was  going  with 
her.  There  could  be  nothing  to  fear. 

Charlotte  made  no  opposition.  She,  too,  in  thought,  was 
making  haste  to  be  clear  of  present  embarrassments.  The 
rooms  Ottilie  had  occupied  at  the  castle  she  would  have  pre- 
pared for  Edward  as  soon  as  possible,  and  restored  to  the 
state  in  which  they  had  been  before  the  arrival  of  the  captain. 
The  hope  of  bringing  back  old  happy  days  burns  up  again 
and  again  in  us,  as  if  it  never  could  be  extinguished.  And 
Charlotte  was  quite  right : there  was  nothing  else  for  her, 
except  to  hope  as  she  did. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

TVhex  Mittler  was  come  to  talk  with  Edward  about  the 
matter,  he  found  him  sitting  by  himself,  with  his  head  sup- 
ported on  his  right  hand,  and  his  arm  resting  on  the  table. 
He  appeared  in  great  suffering. 

“ Is  your  headache  troubling  you  again?  ” asked  Mittler. 

“It  is  troubling  me,”  answered  he;  “ and  yet  I cannot 
wish  it  were  not  so,  for  it  reminds  me  of  Ottilie.  She.  too, 
I say  to  myself,  is  also  suffering  in  the  same  way  at  this 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


321 


same  moment,  and  suffering  more  perhaps  than  I ; and  why 
cannot  I bear  it  as  well  as  she?  These  pains  are  good  for 
me.  I might  almost  say  that  they  were  welcome  ; for  they 
serve  to  bring  out  before  me,  with  the  greater  vividness,  her 
patience  and  all  her  other  graces.  It  is  only  when  we  suffer 
ourselves,  that  we  feel  really  the  true  nature  of  all  the  high 
qualities  which  are  required  to  bear  suffering.” 

Mittler,  finding  his  friend  so  far  resigned,  did  not  hesitate 
to  communicate  the  message  with  which  he  had  been  sent. 
He  brought  it  out  piecemeal,  however,  in  order  of  time,  as 
the  idea  had  itself  arisen  between  the  ladies,  and  had  gradu- 
ally ripened  into  a purpose.  Edward  scarce!}'  made  an 
objection.  From  the  little  which  he  said,  it  appeared  as  if 
he  was  willing  to  leave  every  thing  to  them  ; the  pain  which 
he  was  suffering  at  the  moment  making  him  indifferent  to 
all  besides. 

Scarcely,  however,  was  he  again  alone,  than,  he  got  up  and 
walked  rapidly  up  and  down  the  room : he  forgot  his  paiu, 
Ins  attention  now  turning  to  what  was  external  to  himself. 
Mittler’s  story  had  stirred  the  embers  of  his  love,  and  awak- 
ened his  imagination  in  all  its  vividness.  He  saw  Ottilie  by 
herself,  or  as  good  as  by  herself,  travelling  on  a road  which 
was  well  known  to  him,  — in  a hotel  with  every  room  of 
which  he  was  familiar.  He  thought,  he  considered,  or 
rather  he  neither  thought  nor  considered  : he  only  wished, 
he  only  desired.  He  would  see  her  : he  would  speak  to  her. 
Why,  or  for  what  good  end  that  was  to  come  of  it,  he  did 
not  care  to  ask  himself  ; but  he  made  up  his  mind  at  once. 
He  must  do  it. 

He  summoned  his  valet  into  his  council,  and  through  him 
he  made  himself  acquainted  with  the  day  and  hour  when 
Ottilie  was  to  set  out.  The  morning  broke.  Without  taking 
any  person  with  him,  Edward  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode 
off  to  the  place  where  she  was  to  pass  the  night.  He  was 
there  too  soon.  The  hostess  was  overjoyed  at  the  sight  of 
him : she  was  under  heavy  obligations  to  him  for  a service 
which  he  had  been  able  to  do  for  her.  Her  son  had  been  in 
the  army,  where  he  had  conducted  himself  with  remarkable 
gallantry.  He  had  performed  one  particular  action  of  whicii 
no  one  had  been  a witness  but  Edward ; and  the  latter  had 
spoken  of  it  to  the  commander-in-chief  in  termk  of  such  high 
praise,  that,  notwithstanding  the  opposition  of  various  ill- 
wishers,  he  had  obtained  a decoration  for  him.  The  mother, 

, therefore,  could  never  do  enough  for  Edward.  She  got 


322 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


ready  her  best  room  for  him,  which  indeed  was  her  own 
w'ardrobe  and  storeroom,  with  all  possible  speed.  He  in- 
formed her,  however,  that  a young  lady  was  coming  to  pass 
the  night  there  ; and  he  ordered  an  apartment  for  her  at  the 
back,  at  the  end  of  the  gallery.  It  sounded  a mysterious 
sort  of  affair  ; but  the  hostess  was  ready  to  do  any  thing  to 
please  her  patron,  who  appeared  so  interested  and  so  busy 
about  it.  And  he,  wliat  were  his  sensations  as  he  watched 
through  the  long,  weary  hours  till  evening?  He  examined 
the  room  round  and  round  in  which  he  was  to  see  her : with 
all  its  strangeness  and  homeliness  it  seemed  to  him  to  be  an 
abode  for  angels.  He  again  and  again  turned  over  in  his  ! 
mind  Avhat  he  had  better  do : was  he  to  take  her  bj"  sur- 
prise, or  whether  to  prepare  her  for  meeting  him.  At  last  I 
the  second  course  seemed  the  preferable  one.  He  sat  down 
and  wrote  a letter,  which  she  was  to  read. 

EDWARD  TO  OTTILIE. 

“While  you  read  this  letter,  my  best  beloved,  I am  close  : 
to  you.  Do  not  agitate  yourself ; do  not  be  alanned : you 
have  nothing  to  fear  from  me.  I will  not  force  myself  upon 
you.  I will  see  you  or  not,  as  you  j’ourself  shall  choose. 

“ Consider,  oh  consider,  your  condition  and  mine!  How 
much  I thank  you,  that  you  have  taken  no  decisive  step  I ■ 
But  the  step  which  you  have  taken  is  important  enough. 

Do  not  persist  in  it.  Here,  as  it  were,  at  a parting  of  the 
ways,  reflect  once  again.  Can  you  be  mine?  Will  you  be 
mine?  Oh,  yon  will  be  showing  mercy  on  us  all  if  you  will;  I 
and  on  me  infinite  mercy  ! 

“ Let  me  see  you  again  ! — happily,  joyfully  see  you  once  i 

more  ! Let  me  make  my  request  to  you  with  my  own  lips ; i 

and  do  you  give  me  3’our  answer  your  own  beautiful  self,  on 
my  breast,  Ottilie,  where  you  have  so  often  rested,  and  which 
belongs  to  j^ou  forever  ! ” 

As  he  was  writing,  the  feeling  rushed  over  him  that 
what  he  was  longing  for  was  coming,  was  close,  would  be  | 
there  almost  immediately.  By  that  door  she  would  come  I 

in ; she  would  read  that  letter ; she,  in  her  own  person,  I 

would  stand  there  before  him  as  she  used  to  stand,  — she, 
for  whose  appearance  he  had  tliirsted  so  long.  Would  she 
be  the  same  as  she  was?  Was  her  form,  were  her  feelings, 
changed?  He  still  held  the  pen  in  his  hand : he  was  going 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


323 


to  write,  as  he  thought,  when,  the  carriage  rolled  into  the 
court.  With  a few  hurried  strokes  he  added,  “I  hear  you 
cojniug.  For  a moment,  farewell ! ” 

He  folded  the  letter,  and  directed  it.  He  had  no  time  for- 
sealing.  He  darted  into  the  room,  through  which  there  was 
a second  outlet  into  the  gallery ; when  the  next  moment  he 
recollected  that  he  had  left  his  watch  and  seals  lying  on  the 
table.  She  must  not  see  these  first.  He  ran  back  and 
brought  them  away  with  him.  At  the  same  instant  he  heard 
the  hostess  m the  ante-chamber  showing  Ottilie  the  way  to 
her  apartments.  He  hastened  to  the  bedroom-door,  but  it 
had  suddenly  shut.  In  his  hurry,  as  he  had  come  back  for 
his  watch,  he  had  forgotten  to  take  out  the  key,  which  had 
fallen  out,  and  was  lying  inside.  The  door  had  closed  with 
a spring,  and  he  could  not  open  it.  He  pushed  at  it  with 
all  his  might,  but  it  would  not  yield.  Oh,  how  gladly  would 
he  have  been  a spirit,  to  escape  through  its  cracks  ! In  vain. 
He  hid  his  face  against  the  panels.  Ottilie  entered ; and 
the  hostess,  seeing  him,  retired.  From  Ottilie  herself,  too, 
he  could  not  remain  concealed  for  a moment.  He  turned 
towards  her  ; and  there  stood  the  lovers  once  more,  in  such 
strange  fashion,  in  one  another’s  presence.  She  looked  at 
him  calmly  and  earnestly,  without  advancing  or  retiring. 
He  made  a movement  to  approach  her,  and  she  withdrew 
a few  steps  towards  the  table.  He  stepped  back  again. 
“Ottilie!”  he  cried  aloud,  “Ottilie!  let  me  break  this 
frightful  silence  ! Are  we  shadows,  that  we  stand  thus  gaz- 
ing at  each  other  ? Only  listen  to  me  : listen  to  this  at  least. 
It  is  an  accident  that  you  find  me  here  thus.  There  is  a 
letter  on  the  fable,  at  your  side  there,  which  was  to  have 
prepared  you.  Read  it,  I implore  you  : read  it,  and  then 
determine  as  you  will ! ” 

She  looked  down  at  the  letter ; and,  after  thinking  a few 
seconds,  took  it  up^  opened  and  read  it.  She  finished  it  with- 
out a change  of  expression,  and  she  gently  laid  it  aside  ; then, 
pressiug  together  the  palms  of  her  hands,  raising  them,  and 
I drawing  them  against  her  breast,  she  leaned  her  body  a little 
forward,  and  regarded  Edward  with  such  a look,  that,  urgent 
as  he  was,  he  was  compelled  to  renounce  every  thing  he 
, wished  or  desired  of  her.  Such  an  attitude  cut  him  to  the 
, heart ; he  could  not  bear  it.  It  seemed  exactly  as  if  she 
would  fall  upon  her  knees  before  him,  if  he  persisted.  He 
hurried  in  despair  out  of  the  room,  and,  leaving  her  alone, 
I sent  the  hostess  in  to  her. 


324 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


He  walked  up  and  down  the  ante-chamber.  Night  had 
come  on,  and  there  was  no  sound  in  the  room.  At  last  the 
hostess  came  out,  and  drew  the  key  out  of  the  lock.  The 
good  woman  was  embarrassed  and  agitated,  not  knowing 
what  it  would  be  proper  for  her  to  do.  At  last,  as  she  ' 
turned  to  go,  she  offered  the  key  to  Edward,  who  refused  it ; - 

and,  putting  down  the  candle,  she  went  away.  ; 

In  misery  and  wretchedness,  Edward  flung  himself  down  * 
on  the  threshold  of  the  door  which  divided  him  from  Ottilie,  ’ 
moistening  it  with  his  tears  as  he  lay.  A more  unhappy  ■ 
night  h{^d  been  seldom  passed  by  two  lovers  in  such  close  ‘ 
neighborhood.  ' 

Day  came  at  last.  The  coachman  brought  round  the  car-  * 
riage ; and  the  hostess  unlocked  the  door,  and  went  in.  ‘ 
Ottilie  was  asleep  in  her  clothes ; she  went  back,  and  beck-  ‘ 
oned  to  Edward  with  a significant  smile.  They  both  entered,  < 
and  stood  before  her  as  she  lay  ; but  the  sight  was  too  much 
for  Edward.  He  could  not  bear  it.  She  was  sleeping  so 
quietly  that  the  hostess  did  not  like  to  disturb  her,  but  sat 
down  opposite  her,  waiting  till  she  woke.  At  last  Ottilie 
opened  her  beautiful  eyes,  and  raised  herself  on  her  feet. 
She  declined  taking  any  breakfast ; and  then  Edward  went  in 
again,  and  stood  before,  her.  He  entreated  her  to  speak  but 
one  word  to  him,  to  tell  him  what  she  desired.  He  would 
do  it,  be  it  what  it  would,  he  swore  to  her ; but  she  remained 
silent.  He  asked  her  once  more,  passionately  and  tenderh’, 
whether  she  would  be  his.  With  downcast  eyes,  and  with 
the  deepest  tenderness  of  manner,  she  shook  her  head  to  a 
gentle  “No.”  He  asked  if  she  still  desired  to  go  to  the 
school.  Without  any  show  of  feeling,  she  declined.  Would  ; 
she,  then,  go  back  to  Charlotte?  She  inclined  her  head  in  i* 
token  of  assent,  with  a look  of  comfort  and  relief.  He  i 
W'ent  to  the  window  to  give  directions  to  the  coachman  ; and, 
wdieii  his  back  was  turned,  she  darted  like  lightning  out  of  ; 
the  room,  and  was  down  the  stairs  and  in  the  carriage  in  an  i 
instant.  The  coachman  drove  back  along  the  road  which  he 
had  come  the  day  before,  and  Edward  followed  at  some 
distance  on  horseback. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


325 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

It  was  with  the  utmost  surprise  that  Charlotte  saw  the 
carriage  drive  up  with  Ottilie,  aud  Edward  at  the  same 
moment  ride  into  the  court-yard  of  the  castle.  She  ran 
down  to  the  hall.  Ottilie  alighted,  and  approached  her  and 
Edward.  Violently  and  eagerly  she  seized  the  hands  of  the 
wife  and  husband,  pressed  them  together,  and  hurrie  ;1  off  to 
i her  own  room.  Edward  threw  himself  on  Charlotte’s  neck, 
i and  burst  into  tears.  He  could  not  give  her  any  ‘ vplana- 
! tiou  : he  besought  her  to  have  patience  with  him,  and  to  go 
at  once  to  see  Ottilie.  Charlotte  followed  her  to  her  room, 
and  she  could  not  enter  it  without  a shudder.  It  had  been 
all  cleared  out.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the 
empty  walls,  which  stood  there  looking  cheerless,  vacant, 
and  miserable.  Every  thing  had  been  carried  away  except 
;i  the  little  box,  which,  from  an  uncertainty  what  was  to  be 
done  with  it,  had  been  left  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
J)i  Ottilie  was  lying  stretched  upon  the  ground,  her  arm  and 
t head  leaning  across  the  cover.  Charlotte  bent  anxiously 
i over  her,  and  asked  what  had  happened ; but  she  received 
' no  answer. 

Her  maid  had  come  with  restoratives.  Charlotte  left  her 
( with  Ottilie,  and  herself  hastened  back  to  Edward.  She 
1 found  him  in  the  saloon,  but  he  could  tell  her  nothing.  He 
' threw  himself  down  before  her,  bathed  her  hands  with  tears, 
then  fled  to  his  own  room : she  was  going  to  follow  him 
thither,  when  she  met  his  valet.  From  this  man  she  gath- 
ered as  much  as  he  was  able  to  tell.  The  rest  she  put 
together  in  her  own  thoughts  as  well  as  she  could,  aud  then 
at  once  set  herself  resolutely  to  do  what  the  exigencies  of 
the  moment  required.  Ottilie ’s  room  was  put  to  rights 
again  as  quickly  as  possible  : Edward  found  his,  to  the  last 
paper,  exactly  as  he  had  left  it. 

The  three  appeared  again  to  fall  into  some  sort  of  relation 
with  one  another.  But  Ottilie  persevered  in  her  silence, 
and  Edward  could  do  nothing  except  entreat  his  wife  to 
exert  a patience  which  seemed  wanting  to  himself.  Charlotte 
sent  messengers  to  Mittler  aud  to  the  major.  The  former 
was  absent  from  home,  and  could  not  be  found.  The  latter 
came.  To  him  Edward  poured  out  all  his  heart,  confessing 
every  most  trifling  circumstance  to  him  ; aud  thus  Charlotte 
: learned  fully  what  had  passed,  what  had  produced  such 


326 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


violent  excitement,  and  how  so  strange  an  alteration  of  their 
mutual  position  had  been  brought  about. 

She  spoke  with  the  utmost  tenderness  to  her  husband. 
She  had  nothing  to  ask  of  him  except  that  for  the  present 
he  would  leave  the  poor  girl  to  herself.  Edward  was  not 
insensible  to  the  worth,  the  affection,  the  strong  sense  of  his 
wife  ; but  his  passion  absorbed  him  exclusively.  Charlotte 
tried  to  cheer  him  with  hopes.  She  promised  that  she  her- 
self would  make  no  difficulties  about  the  separation,  but  it 
had  small  effect  with  him.  He  was  so  much  shaken  that  hope 
and  faith  alternately  forsook  him.  A species  of  insanity 
appeared  to  have  taken  possession  of  him.  He  urged  Char- 
lotte to  promise  to  give  her  baud  to  the  major.  To  satisfy 
and  humor  him,  she  did  what  he  required.  She  engaged 
to  become  herself  the  wife  of  the  major,  in  the  event  of 
Ottilie  consenting  to  the  marriage  with  Edward,  with  this 
express  condition,  however,  that  for  the  present  the  two 
gentlemen  should  go  abroad  together.  The  major  had  a 
foreign  appointment  from  the  court,  and  it  was  settled  that 
Edward  should  accompany  him.  They  arranged  it  all 
together,  and  in  doing  so  found  a sort  of  comfort  for 
themselves  in  the  sense  that  at  least  something  was  being 
done. 

In  the  mean  time  they  had  to  notice  that  Ottilie  took 
scarcely  any  thing  to  eat  or  drink.  She  still  persisted  in 
refusing  to  speak.  They  at  first  used  to  talk  to  her  ; but  it 
appeared  to  distress  her,  and  they  left  it  off.  We  are  not, 
universally  at  least,  so  weak  as  to  persist  in  torturing  people 
for  their  good.  Charlotte  thought  of  all  possible  remedies.  i 
At  last  she  fancied  it  might  be  well  to  ask  the  assistant  of 
the  school  to  come  to  them.  He  had  much  influence  with 
Ottilie,  and  had  been  writing  with  much  anxiety  to  inquire  ' 
the  cause  of  her  not  having  arrived  at  the  time  he  had  been 
expecting  her ; but  as  yet  she  had  not  sent  him  any  answer. 

In  order  not  to  take  Ottilie  by  surprise,  they  spoke  of 
their  intention  in  her  presence.  It  did  not  seem  to  please 
her  : she  thought  for  some  little  time  : at  last  she  appeared 
to  have  formed  some  resolution.  She  retired  to  her  own 
room,  and  ere  night  sent  the  following  letter  to  the  assembled  - 
party : — 

“ottilie  to  her  friends. 

“ Why  need  I express  in  words,  my  dear  friends,  what  is 
in  itself  so  plain?  I have  stepped  out  of  m3’  course,  and  I I 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


327 


cannot  recover  it  again.  A malignant  spirit  which  has 
gained  power  over  me  seems  to  hinder  me  from  without, 
even  if  within  I could  again  become  at  peace  with  myself. 

“ My  sole  purpose  was  to  renounce  Edward,  and  to  sepa- 
rate myself  from  him  forever.  I had  hoped  that  we  might 
never  meet  again  : it  has  turned  out  otherwise.  Against  his 
own  will  he  stood  before  me.  Too  literally,  perhaps,  I have 
observed  my  promise  never  to  admit  him  into  conversation 
with  me.  My  conscience  and  the  feelings  of  the  moment 
kept  me  silent  towards  him  at  the  time,  and  now  ,I  have 
nothing  more  to  say.  I have  taken  upon  myself,  under  the 
impulse  of  the  moment,  a difficult  vow,  which,  if  it  had  been 
Jormed  deliberately,  might  perhaps  be  painful  and  distress- 
ing. Let  me  now  persist  in  the  observance  of  it  as  long  as 
my  heart  shall  enjoin  it  to  me.  Do  not  call  in  any  one  to 
mediate  ; do  not  insist  upon  my  speaking  ; do  not  urge  me  to 
eat  or  to  drink  more  than  I absolutely  must.  Bear  with  me, 
and  let  me  alone,  and  so  help  me  on  through  the  time  : I am 
young,  and  youth  has  many  unexpected  means  of  restoring 
itself.  Suffer  mj’  presence  among  you  ; cheer  me  with  your 
love ; make  me  wiser  and  better  with  what  you  say  to  one 
another,  — but  leave  me  to  my  own  inward  self.” 

The  two  friends  had  made  all  preparation  for  their  journey  ; 
but  their  departure  was  still  delayed  by  the  formalities  of  the 
foreign  appointment  of  the  major,  a delay  most  welcome  to 
Edward.  Ottilie’s  letter  had  roused  all  his  eagerness  again  : 
he  had  gathered  hope  and  comfort  from  her  words,  and  now 
felt  himself  encouraged  and  justified  in  remaining  and  waiting. 
He  declared,  therefore,  that  he  would  not  go : it  would  be 
: folly  indeed,  he  cried,  of  his  own  accord  to  throw  away, 
by  over-precipitateness,  what  was  most  valuable  and  most 
necessary  to  him,  when,  although  tliere  was  a danger  of  losing 
it,  there  was  nevertheless  a chance  that  it  might  be  preserved. 
“ What  is  the  right  name  of  conduct  such  as  that?  ” he  said. 
“ It  is  only  that  we  desire  to  show  that  we  are  able  to  will,  to 
choose.  I myself,  under  the  influences  of  the  same  ridiculous 
folly,  have  torn  myself  away,  days  before  there  was  any  neces- 
sity for  it,  from  my  friends,  merely  that  I might  not  be  forced 
to  go  by  the  definite  expiration  of  my  term.  This  time  I 
will  stay:  what  reason  is  there  for  my  going?  is  she  not 
already  removed  far  enough  from  me  ? I am  not  likely  now 
to  catch  her  hand  or  press  her  to  my  heart : I could  not 
even  think  of  it  without  a shudder.  She  has  not  separated 
herself  from  me  : she  has  raised  herself  far  above  me.” 


828 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


F 


And  so  he  remained  as  he  desired,  as  he  was  obliged ; but 
he  was  never  easy  except  when  he  found  himself  with  Ottilie. 
She,  too,  had  the  same  feeling  with  him  : she  could  not  tear  i 
herself  away  from  the  same  blissful  necessity.  On  all  sides 
they  exerted  an  indescribable,  almost  magical,  power  of 
attraction  over  one  another.  Living  as  they  were  under  one  | 
roof,  without  even  so  much  as  thinking  of  each  other,  although  ‘ 
they  might  be  occupied  with  other  things,  or  diverted  this 
way  or  that  way  by  the  other  members  of  the  party,  they 
always  drew  together.  If  they  were  in  the  same  room,  in  a 
short  time  they  were  sure  to  be  either  standing  or  sitting  near 
each  other : they  were  only  easy  when  as  close  together  as  i 
they  could  be,  but  they  were  then  completely  easy.  To  be  ' 
near  was  enough  ; there  was  no  need  for  them  either  to  look  i 
or  to  speak  ; they  did  not  seek  to  touch  one  another  or  make  ; 
sign  or  gesture,  but  merely  to  be  together.  Then  there  were  i 
not  two,  there  was  but  one,  in  unconscious  and  perfect  con-  . 
tent,  at  peace,  and  at  peace  with  the  world.  So  it  was,  that,  ■ 
if  either  of  them  had  been  imprisoned  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  house,  the  other  would  bj’  degrees,  without  intending  it, 
have  moved  thither.  Life  was  to  them  a riddle,  the  solution 
of  which  they  could  find  only  in  union. 

Ottilie  was  throughout  so  cheerful  and  quiet  that  they 
were  able  to  feel  perfectly  easy  about  her ; she  was  seldom 
absent  from  the  society  of  her  friends ; all  that  she  had 
desired  was,  that  she  might/be  allowed  to  eat  alone,  with  uo 
one  to  attend  upon  her  but  Nanny. 

What  habitually  befalls  any  person  repeats  itself  more 
often  than  one  is  apt  to  suppose,  because  his  own  nature  I 
gives  the  immediate  occasion  for  it.  Character,  individuality, 
inclination,  tendency,  locality,  circumstance,  and  habits  ^ 
form  together  a whole,  in  which  every  man  moves  as  in  an 
atmosphere,  and  where  only  he  feels  himself  at  ease  in  his 
proper  element. 

And  so  we  find  men,  of  whose  changeableness  so  many 
complaints  are  made,  after  many  years,  to  our  surprise, 
unchanged,  and  in  all  their  infinite  tendencies,  outward  and 
inward,  unchangeable. 

Thus,  in  the  daily  life  of  our  friends,  almost  every  thing  ‘ 
glided  on  again  in  its  old  smooth  track.  Ottilie  still  displayed 
by  many  silent  attentions  her  obliging  nature,  and  the  othem 
like  her  continued  each  themselves  ; and  then  the  domestic 
circle  exhibited  an  image  of  their  former  life,  so  like  it.  that 
they  might  be  pardoned  if  at  times  they  fancied  all  might  be 
again  as  it  was  once. 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


329 


I The  autumn  days,  which  were  of  the  same  length  with 
those  old  spring  days,  brought  the  party  back  into  the  house 
out  of  the  air  about  the  same  hour.  The  gay  fruits  and 
flowers  which  belonged  to  the  season  might  have  made  them 
fancy  it  was  now  the  autumn  of  that  first  spring,  and  the 
4 interval  dropped  out  of  remembrance  ; for  the  flowers  which 
now  were  blowing  were  such  as  they  then  had  sown,  and  the 
[j  fruits  were  now  ripening  on  the  trees  they  had  at  that  time 

I seen  in  blossom. 

i The  major  went  backwards  and  forwards,  and  Mittler  came 
f:  frequently.  The  evenings  were  generally  spent  in  exactly  the 

I I same  way.  Fldward  usually  read  aloud,  with  more  life  and 
||  feeling  than  before,  much  better,  and  even,  it  may  be  said, 
I j with  more  cheerfulness.  It  appeared  as  if  he  were  eudeavor- 
Sj  ing,  by  light-heartedness  as  much  as  by  devotion,  to  quicken 
il  Ottilie’s  torpor  into  life,  and  dissolve  her  silence.  He  seated 

himself  in  the  same  position  as  he  used  to  do,  that  she  might 
[ look  over  his  book : he  was  uneasy  and  distracted  unless  she 
was  doing  so,  unless  he  was  sure  that  she  was  following  his 
words  with  her  eyes. 

i Every  trace  had  vanished  of  the  unpleasant,  ungracious 
I feelings  of  the  intervening  time.  No  one  had  any  secret 
1 complaint  against  another;  there  were  no  cross  purposes,  no 
I i bitterness.  The  major  accompanied  Charlotte’s  playing  with 
« his  violin  ; and  Fidward’s  flute  sounded  again,  as  formerly,  m 
1 harmony  with  Ottilie’s  piano.  Thus  they  were  now  approach- 
I ing  Edward’s  birthday,  which  the  year  before  they  had 
missed  celebrating.  This  time  they  were  to  keep  it  without 
(any  festivities,  in  quiet  enjoyment  among  themselves.  They 
jhad  so  settled  it  together,  half  expressly,  half  from  a tacit 
(agreement.  As  they  approached  nearer  to  this  epoch,  how- 
. ever,  an  anxiety  about  it,  which  had  hitherto  been  more  felt 
[than  observed,  became  more  noticeable  in  Ottilie’s  manner, 
i She  was  to  be  seen  often  in  the  garden  examining  the  flowers. 
,She  had  signified  to  the  gardener  that  he  was  to  save  as  many 
as  he  could  of  every  sort ; and  she  had  been  especially  occu- 
ipied  with  the  asters,  which  this  year  were  blowing  in  immense 
'profusion. 


330 


ELPXTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

The  most  remarkable  feature,  however,  which  was  ohserv'ed 
about  Ottilie  was,  that,  for  the  first  time,  she  had  now  un- 
packed the  box,  and  had  selected  a varietj'  of  things  out  of 
it,  which  she  had  cut  up,  and  which  were  intended  evidently 
to  make  one  complete  suit  for  her.  The  rest,  with  Nanny’s 
assistance,  she  had  endeavored  to  replace  again  ; and  she  had 
been  hardly  able  to  get  it  done,  the  space  being  over  full, 
although  a portion  had  been  taken  out.  The  covetous  little 
Nanny  could  never  satisfy  herself  with  looking  at  all  the 
pretty  things,  especially  as  she  found  provision  made  there 
for  every  article  of  dress  which  could  be  wanted,  even  the 
smallest.  Numbers  of  shoes  and  stockings,  garters  with 
dertces  on  them,  gloves,  and  various  other  things,  were  left ; 
and  she  begged  Ottilie  just  to  give  her  one  or  two  of  them. 
Ottilie  refused  to  do  that,  Init  opened  a drawer  in  her  ward- 
robe, and  told  the  girl  to  take  what  she  liked.  The  latter 
hastily  and  clumsily  dashed  in  her  hand  and  seized  what  she 
could,  running  off  at  once  with  her  booty,  to  show  it  off  and 
display  her  good  fortune  among  the  rest  of  the  seiwants. 

At  last  Ottilie  succeeded  in  packing  every  thing  carefully 
into  its  place.  IShe  then  opened  a secret  compartment, 
which  was  contrived  in  the  lid,  where  she  kept  a number  of 
notes  and  letters  from  Edward,  many  dried  flowers,  the 
mementos  of  their  early  walks  together,  a lock  of  his  hair, 
and  various  other  little  matters.  !She  now  added  one  more 
to  them,  — her  father’s  portrait.  — and  then  locked  it  all  up, 
and  hung  the  delicate  key  by  a gold  chain  about  her  neck, 
against  her  heart. 

In  the  mean  time,  her  friends  had  now  in  their  hearts 
begun  to  entertain  the  best  hopes  for  her.  Charlotte  was 
convinced  that  she  would  one  day  begin  to  speak  again. 
She  had  latterly  seen  signs  about  her  which  implied  that  she 
was  engaged  in  secret  about  something ; a look  of  cheerful 
self-satisfaction,  a smile  like  that  which  hangs  about  the  face 
of  persons  who  have  something  pleasant  and  delightful, 
•which  they  are  keeping  concealed  from  those  whom  they 
love.  No  one  knew  that  she  spent  many  hours  in  extreme 
exhaustion,  and  that  only  at  rare  intervals,  when  she  appeared 
in  public  through  the  power  of  her  will,  she  was  able  to  rouse 
herself. 

Mittler  had  latterly  been  a frequent  visitor,  and  when  he 


electivp:  affinities. 


331 


came  he  staid  longer  than  he  usually  did  at  other  times. 
This  strong-willed,  resolute  person  was  only  too  well  aware 
that  there  is  a certain  moment  in  which  alone  it  will  answer 
to  smite  the  iron.  Ottilie’s  silence  and  reserve  he  interpreted 
according  to  his  own  wishes  : no  steps  had  as  yet  been  taken 
towards  a separation  of  the  husband  and  wife.  He  hoped  to 
be  able  to  determine  tlie  fortunes  of  the  poor  girl  in  some  not 
undesirable  way.  He  listened,  he  allowed  himself  to  seem 
convinced  : he  was  discreet  and  unobtrusive,  and  conducted 
himself  in  his  own  way  with  sufficient  prudence.  There  was 
but  one  occasion  on  which  he  uniformly  forgot  himself,  — 
when  he  found  an  opportunity  for  giving  his  opinion  upon 
subjects  to  which  lie  attached  a great  importance.  He  lived 
much  within  himself : and  when  he  V7as  with  others,  his  only 
relation  to  them  generally  was  in  active  employment  on  their 
behalf ; but  if  once,  when  among  friends,  his  tongue  broke 
fairly  loose,  as  on  more  than  one  occasion  we  have  already 
seen,  he  rolled  out  his  words  in  utter  recklessness  whether  they 
wounded  or  whether  they  pleased,  whether  they  did  evil  or 
whether  they  did  good. 

The  evening  before  the  birthday,  the  major  and  Char- 
lotte were  sitting  together  expecting  Edward,  who  had 
gone  out  for  a ride ; Mittler  was  walking  up  and  down  the 
room ; Ottilie  was  in  her  own  room,  laying  out  the  dress 
which  she  was  to  wear  on  the  morrow,  and  making  signs  to 
her  maid  about  a number  of  things,  which  the  girl,  who  per- 
fectly understood  her  silent  language,  arranged  as  she  was 
ordered. 

Mittler  had  fallen  exactly  on  his  favorite  subject.  One  of 
the  points  on  which  he  used  most  to  insist  was,  that  in  the  edu- 
cation of  children,  as  well  as  in  the  conduct  of  nations,  there 
was  nothing  more  worthless  and  barbarous  than  laws  and  com- 
mandments forbidding  this  and  that  action.  “ Man  is  natu- 
rally active,”  he  said,  “wherever  he  is;  and,  if  j’ou  know 
how  to  tell  him  what  to  do,  he  will  do  it  immediately,  and 
keep  straight  in  the  direction  in  which  you  set  him.  I 
myself,  in  my  own  circle,  am  far  better  pleased  to  endure 
faults  and  mistakes,  till  I know  what  the  opposite  virtue  is 
that  1 am  to  enjoin,  than  to  be  rid  of  the  faults  and  to 
have  nothing  good  to  put  in  their  place.  A man  is  really 
glad  to  do  what  is  right  and  sensible,  if  he  only  knows  how 
to  get  at  it.  It  is  no  such  great  matter  with  him  : he  does 
it  because  he  must  have  something  to  do,  and  he  thinks  no 
more  about  it  afterwards  than  he  does  of  the  silliest  frealis 


332 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


which  he  engaged  in  out  of  the  purest  idleness.  I cannot  tell 
you  how  it  annoys  me  to  hear  people  going  over  and  OA'er 
those  Ten  Commandments  in  teaching  children.  The  fifth  is 
a thoroughly  beautiful,  rational,  preceptive  precept.  ‘ Thou 
shalt  honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother.’  If  the  children 
will  inscribe  that  w’ell  upon  their  hearts,  they  have  the  whole 
day  before  them  to  put  it  in  practice.  But  the  sixth  now? 
What  can  we  say  to  that?  ‘ Thou  shalt  do  no  murder  ; ’ as 
if  any  man  ever  felt  the  slightest  general  inclination  to  strike 
another  man  dead.  Men  will  hate  sometimes ; they  will  fly 
into  passions  and  forget  themselves  ; and,  as  a consequence 
of  this  or  other  feelings,  it  may  easily  come  now  and  then 
to  a murder  ; but  what  a barbarous  precaution  it  is  to  tell 
children  that  they  are  not  to  kill  or  murder ! If  the  com- 
mandment ran,  ‘ Have  a regard  for  the  life  of  another;  put 
away  whatever  can  do  him  hurt ; save  him,  though  with 
personal  risk ; if  you  injure  him,  consider  that  j’ou  are 
injuring  yourself,’ — that  is  the  form  which  should  be  in 
use  among  educated,  reasonable  people.  And  in  our  Cate- 
chism teaching  we  have  only  an  awkward,  clumsy  way  of 
sliding  into  it,  through  a ‘ what  does  that  mean  ? ’ 

“ And  as  for  the  seventh,  that  is  utterly  detestable. 
Wh,at ! to  stimulate  the  precocious  curiosity  of 'children  to 
pry  into  dangerous  mj’stei'ies ; to  obtrude  violently  upon 
their  imaginations  ideas  and  notions  which  beyond  all  things 
3’ou  should  wish  to  keep  from  them!  It  were  far  better  if 
such  actions  as  that  commandment  speaks  of  were  dealt  with 
arbitrarily  by  some  seci’et  tribunal,  than  prated  openly  of 
before  church  and  congregation  ” — 

At  this  moment  Ottilie  entered  the  room. 

“ ‘ Thou  slualt  not  commit  adultery,’  ” Mittler  went 
on:  “How  co.arse ! how  brutal!  Wliat  a different  sound 
it  has,  if  3'ou  let  it  run,  ‘Thou  shalt  liold  in  reverence  the 
bond  of  marriage.  When  thou  seest  a husband  and  a wife 
between  whom  there  is  true  love,  thou  shalt  rejoice  in  it ; and 
their  happiness  shall  gladden  thee  like  the  cheerful  light  of 
a beautiful  day.  If  there  arise  any  thing  to  make  division 
between  tliem,  thou  shalt  use  thy  best  endeavor  to  clear  it 
away.  Thou  shalt  labor  to  pacif}'  them,  and  to  soothe  them  ; 
to  show  each  of  them  the  excellencies  of  the  other.  Thou 
shalt  not  think  of  thyself ; but  with  noble  disinterestedness 
thou  shalt  seek  to  further  the  well-being  of  others,  and  make 
them  feel  wh,at  a happiness  is  that  which  arises  out  of  all  duty 
done,  and  esi)ecially  out  of  that  duty  which  holds  man  and 
wife  indissolubly  bound  togicther.’  ” 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


333 


Charlotte  felt  as  if  she  was  sitting  on  hot  coals.  The 
situation  was  the  more  distressing,  as  she  was  convinced  that 
Mittler  was  not  thinking  the  least  where  he  was  or  what  he 
was  saying  ; and,  before  she  was  able  to  interrupt  him,  she 
saw  Ottilie,  after  changing  color  painfully  for  a few  seconds, 
rise,  and  leave  the  room. 

Charlotte  constrained  herself  to  seem  unembarrassed. 
“You  will  leave  us  the  eighth  commandment,”  she  said, 
with  a faint  smile. 

“ All  the  rest,”  replied  Mittler,  “ if  I may  only  insist  first 
on  the  foundation  of  the  whole  of  them.” 

At  this  moment  Nanny  rushed  in,  screaming  and  crying, 
“She  is  dying;  the  young  lady  is  dying;  come  to  her, 
come ! ’ ’ 

Ottilie  had  found  her  way  back  with  extreme  difficulty  to 
her  own  room.  The  beautiful  things  she  was  to  wear  the 
next  day  were  spread  on  a number  of  chairs ; and  the 
girl,  who  had  been  running  from  one  to  the  other,  staring 
at  them  and  admiring  them,  called  out  in  her  ecstasy,  “ Look, 
dearest  madam,  only  look  ! There  is  a bridal  dress  worthy 
of  you.” 

Ottilie  heard  the  word,  and  sank  upon  the  sofa.  Nanny 
saw  her  mistress  turn  pale,  fall  back,  and  faint.  She  ran 
for  Charlotte,  who  came.  The  medical  friend  was  on  the 
spot  in  a moment.  He  thought  it  was  nothing  but  ex- 
haustion. He  ordered  some  strong  soup  to  be  brought.  Ot- 
tilie refused  it  with  an  expression  of  loathing  : it  almost  threw 
her  into  convulsions  when  they  put  the  cup  to  her  lips.  A 
light  seemed  to  break  on  the  physician  : he  asked  hastily  and 
anxiously  what  Ottilie  had  taken  that  day.  The  little  girl 
hesitated.  He  repeated  his  question,  and  she  then  acknowl- 
edged that  Ottilie  had  taken  nothing. 

There  was  a nervousness  of  manner  about  Nanny  which 
made  him  suspicious.  He  carried  her  with  him  into  the  adjoin- 
ing room  ; Charlotte  followed  ; and  the  girl  threw  herself  on 
her  knees,  and  confessed,  that,  for  a long  time  past,  Ottilie  had 
taken  as  good  as  nothing ; at  her  mistress’s  urgent  request, 
she  had  herself  eaten  the  food  which  had  been  brought  for 
her ; she  had  said  nothing  about  it,  because  Ottilie  had  by 
signs  alternately  begged  her  not  to  tell  any  one,  and  threat- 
ened her  if  she  did  ; and,  as  she  innocently  added,  “ because 
it  was  so  nice.” 

The  major  and  Mittler  now  came  up  as  well.  They  found 
Charlotte  busy  with  the  physician.  The  pale,  beautiful  girl 


334 


elp:ctive  affinities. 


was  sitting,  apparently  conscious,  in  the  comer  of  the  sofa. 
They  had  begged  her  to  lie  down  ; she  had  dec-lined  to  do  this  : 
but  she  made  signs  to  have  her  box  brought,  aud,  resting  her 
feet  upon  it,  placed  herself  in  an  eas}-,  half  recumbent  posi- 
tion. She  seemed  desirous  of  taking  leave,  and,  by  her 
gestures,  was  expressing  to  all  about  her  the  tenderest  affec- 
tion, love,  gratitude,  entreaties  for  forgiveness,  aud  the  most 
heartfelt  farewell. 

Edward,  on  alighting  from  his  horse,  was  informed  of  what 
had  happened : he  rushed  to  the  room,  threw  himself  down 
at  lier  side,  aud,  seizing  her  hand,  deluged  it  with  silent  tears. 
In  tins  position  he  remained  a long  time.  At  last  he  called 
out,  “And  am  I never  more  to  hear  your  voice?  Will  you 
not  turn  back  toward  life,  to  give  me  one  single  word? 
Well, -then,  very  well.  I will  follow  you  yonder,  and  there 
we  will  speak  in  another  language.” 

She  pressed  his  hand  with  all  the  strength  she  had : she 
gazed  at  him  with  a glance  full  of  life  and  full  of  love  ; aud 
drawing  a long  breath,  and  for  a little  while  moving  her  lips 
inarticulately,  with  a tender  effort  of  affection  she  called  out, 
“ Promise  me  to  live  ; ” and  then  fell  back  immediately. 

“I  promise,  I promise!”  he  cried  to  her;  but  he  cried 
only  after  her;  she  was  already  gone. 

After  a miserable  night,  the  care  of  providing  for  the  loved 
remains  fell  upon  Chai  lotte.  The  major  aud  Mittler  assisted 
her.  Edward’s  condition  was  utterly  pitiable.  His  first 
thought,  when  he  was  in  any  degree  recovered  from  his 
despair,  and  able  to  collect  himself,  was,  that  Ottilie  should 
not  be  carried  out  of  the  castle,  she  should  be  kept  there, 
and  attended  upon  as  if  she  were  alive  ; for  she  was  uot 
dead,  it  was  impossible  that  she  should  be  dead.  They  did 
what  he  desired  ; at  least,  so  far  as  that  they  did  uot  do  what 
he  had  foibidden.  He  did  not  ask  to  see  her. 

There  was  now  a second  alarm,  and  a further  cause  for 
anxiet}'.  Nanny,  who  had  been  siioken  to  sharply  by  the 
physician,  had  been  compelled  b}’  threats  to  confess,  aud 
after  her  confession  had  been  overwhelmed  with  reproaches, 
had  now  disappeared.  After  a long  search  she  was  found, 
but  she  appeared  to  be  out  of  her  mind.  Her  parents’  took 
her  home  ; but  the  gentlest  treatment  had  no  effect  upon  her, 
aud  she  had  to  be  locked  up  for  fear  she  should  run  away 
again. 

They  succeeded  by  degrees  in  rescuing  Edward  from  utter 
despair,  but  only  to  make  him  more  really  wretched.  He 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


335 


now  saw  clearly,  he  could  not  doubt  how,  that  the  happiness 
of  his  life  was  gone  from  him  forever.  It  was  suggested  to 
him,  that,  if  Ottilie  were  buried  in  the  chapel,  she  would  still 
remain  among  the  living ; and  it  would  be  a calm,  quiet, 
peaceful  home  for  her.  There  was  much  difficulty  in  obtain- 
ing his  consent : he  would  only  give  it  under  condition  that 
she  should  be  taken  there  in  an  open  coffin ; that  the  vault 
in  which  she  was  laid,  if  covered  at  all,  should  be  only 
covered  with  glass ; and  a lamp  should  be  kept  always  burn- 
ing there.  It  was  arranged  that  this  should  be  done,  and 
then  he  seemed  resigned. 

They  clothed  the  lovely  body  in  the  festal  dress  she  had 
herself  prepared,  and  wreathed  about  her  head  a garland  of 
asters,  which  shone  sadly  there  like  melancholy  stars.  To 
decorate  the  bier  and  the  church  and  chapel,  the  gardens  were 
robbed  of  their  beauty  : they  lay  desolate,  as  if  a premature 
winter  had  blighted  all  their  loveliness.  At  early  morning 
she  was  borne  in  an  open  coffin  out  of  the  castle,  and  the 
heavenly  features  were  once  more  reddened  with  the  rising 
sun.  The  mourners  crowded  about  her  as  she  was  being 
taken  along.  None  would  go  before,  none  would  follow, 
every  one  would  be  where  she  was,  every  one  would  enjoy 
her  presence  for  the  last  time.  Not  one  of  all  present,  men, 
women,  boys,  remained  unmoved  ; least  of  all  to  be  consoled 
were  the  girls,  who  felt  most  immediately  what  they  had 
lost. 

Nanny  was  not  present : it  had  been  thought  better  not  to 
allow  it,  and  they  had  kept  secret  from  her  the  da‘y  and  the 
hour  of  the  funeral.  She  was  at  her  parent’s  house,  closely 
watched,  in  a room  looking  towards  the  garden.  But,  when 
she  heard  the  bells  tolling,  she  knew  too  well  what  they 
meant ; and  her  attendant  having  left  her  out  of  curiosity 
to  see  the  funeral,  she  escaped  out  of  the  window  into  a 
passage,  and  from  thence,  finding  all  the  doors  locked,  into 
an  upper  open  loft.  At  this  moment  the  funeral  was  passing 
through  the  village,  which  had  been  all  freshly  strewed  with 
leaves.  Nanny  saw  her  mistress  plainly  close  below  her, 
more  plainly,  more  entirely,  than  any  one  in  the  procession 
underneath  ; she  appeared  to  be  lifted  above  the  earth,  borne 
as  it  were  on  clouds  or  waves  : and  the  girl  fancied  she  was 
making  signs  to  her ; her  senses  swam  ; she  tottered,  swayed 
herself  for  a moment  on  the  edge,  and  fell  to  the  ground. 
The  crowd  fell  asunder  on  all  sides  with  a cry  of  horror.  In 
the  tumult  and  confusion,  the  bearers  were  obliged  to  set 


336 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


down  the  coffin  ; the  girl  lay  close  by  it ; it  seemed  as  if 
every  limb  was  1)roken.  They  lifted  her  up,  and  b}’  accident 
or  providentially  she  was  allowed  to  lean  over  the  body : she 
appeared,  indeed,  to  be  endeavoring,  with  what  remained  to 
her  of  life,  to  reach  her  beloved  mistress.  Scarcely,  however, 
had  the  loosely  hanging  limbs  touched  Ottilie’s  robe,  and  the 
powerless  finger  rested  on  the  folded  hands,  than  the  girl 
started  up,  and,  first  raising  her  arms  and  eyes  towards 
heaven,  filing  herself  down  upon  her  knees  before  the  cotlin, 
and  gazed  with  passionate  devotion  at  her  mistress. 

At  last  she  sprang,  as  if  inspired,  from  off  the  ground, 
and  cried  with  a voice  of  ecstasy,  “ Yes,  she  has  forgiven 
me  what  no  man,  what  1 m}’self,  could  never  have  forgiven. 
God  forgives  me  through  her  look,  her  motion,  her  lips.  Now 
she  is  lying  again  so  still  and  quiet ; but  you  saw  how  she 
raised  herself  up,  and  unfolded  her  hands  and  blessed  me, 
and  how  kindly  she  looked  at  me.  You  all  heard,  you  can 
witness,  that  she  said  to  me,  ‘ You  are  forgiven.’  I am  not  a 
murderess  any  more.  She  has  forgiven  me.  God  has  for- 
given me,  and  no  one  may  now  say  any  thing  more  against 
me.” 

The  people  stood  crowding  around  her.  The}’  were 
amazed  : they  listened,  and  looked  this  way  and  that ; and  no 
one  knew  what  should  next  be  done.  “ Bear  her  on  to  her 
rest,”  said  the  girl.  “ She  has  done  her  part:  she  has  suf- 
fered, and  cannot  now  remain  any  more  among  us.”  The 
bier  moved  on,  Nanny  now  following  it;  and  thus  they 
reached  the  church  and  the  chapel. 

So  now  stood  the  coffin  of  Ottilie,  with  the  child’s  coffin 
at  her  head,  and  her  box  at  her  feet,  enclosed  in  a resting- 
place  of  massive  oak.  A woman  had  been  provided  to  watch 
the  body  for  the  first  part  of  the  time,  as  it  lay  there  so 
beautifully  beneath  its  glass  covering.  But  Nanny  would  not 
permit  this  duty  to  be  taken  from  herself.  She  would  remain 
alone  without  a companion,  and  attend  to  the,  lamp  which 
was  now  kindled  for  the  first  time  ; and  she  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  do  it  with  so  much  eagerness  and  perseverance, 
that  they  let  her  have  her  M-ay,  to  prevent  any  greater  evil 
that  might  ensue. 

But  she  did  not  long  remain  alone.  As  night  was  falling, 
and  the  hanging  lamp  began  to  exercise  its  full  right  and 
shed  abroad  a larger  lustre,  the  door  opened,  and  the  archi- 
tect entered  the  chapel.  The  chastely  ornamented  walls  in 
the  mild  light  looked  more  strange,  more  awful,  more  antique. 


ELECTIVE  AFFIXITIES. 


337 


than  lie  was  prepared  to  see  them.  Nanny  was  sitting  on 
one  side  of  the  coffin.  She  recognized  him  immediately,  but 
she  pointed  in  silence  to  the  pale  form  of  her  mistress. 
And  there  stood  he  on  the  other  side,  in  the  vigor  of  youth 
and  of  grace,  with  his  arms  drooping,  and  his  hands  clasped 
piteously  together,  motionless,  with  head  and  eye  inclined 
over  the  inanimate  body. 

Once  already  ho  had  stood  thus  before  in  the  “Belisarius  : ” 
he  had  now  involuntarily  fallen  into  the  same  attitude.  And 
this  time  how  naturally  ! Here,  too,  was  something  of  inesti- 
mable worth  thrown  down  from  its  high  estate.  There  were 
courage,  prudence,  power,  rank,  and  wealth  in  one  single 
man,  lost  irrevocably  ; there  were  qualities  which,  in  decisive 
moments,  had  been  of  indispensable  service  to  the  nation 
and  the  prince,  but  which,  when  the  moment  was  passed, 
were  no  more  valued,  but  flung  aside  and  neglected,  and  cared 
for  no  longer.  And  here  were  many  other  silent  virtues, 
which  had  been  summoned  but  a little  time  before  by  nature 
out  of  the  depths  of  her  treasures^,  and  now  swept  rapidly 
away  again  by  her  careless  hand,  — rare,  sweet,  lovely  vir- 
tues, whose  peaceful  workings  the  thirsty  world  had  wel- 
comed, while  it  had  them,  with  gladness  and  jojq  and  now 
was  sorrowinp'  for  them  in  unavailing;  desire. 

Both  the  3’outh  and  the  girl  were  silent  for  a long  time. 
But  when  she  saw  the  tears  streaming  fast  down  his  cheeks, 
and  he  appeared  to  be  sinking  under  the  burden  of  his  sor- 
row, she  spoke  to  him  with  so  much  truthfulness  and  power, 
with  such  kindness  and  such  confidence,  that,  astonished  at 
the  flow  of  her  words,  he  was  able  to  recover  himself ; and 
he  saw  his  beautiful  friend  floating  before  him  in  the  new  life 
of  a higher  world.  His  tears  ceased  flowing ; his  sorrow 
grew  lighter : on  his  knees  he  took  leave  of  Ottilie  ; and, 
with  a warm  pressure  of  the  hand  of  Nanny,  he  rode  away 
from  the  spot  into  the  night  without  having  seen  a single 
other  person. 

The  surgeon  had,  without  the  girl  being  aware  of  it,  re- 
mained all  night  in  the  church ; and,  when  he  went  in  the 
morning  to  see  her,  he  found  her  cheerful  and  tranquil.  He 
was  prepared  for  wild  aberrations.  He  thought  that  she 
would  be  sure  to  s[)eak  to  him  of  conversations  which  she  had 
held  in  the  night  with  Ottilie,  and  of  other  such  apparitions. 
But  she  was  natural,  quiet,  and  perfectly  self-possessed.  She 
remembered  accurately  wliat  had  happened  in  her  previous 
life : she  could  describe  the  circumstances  of  it  with  the 


338 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


greatest  exactness,  and  never,  in  any  thing  which  she  said, 
stepped  out  of  the  course  of  what  was  real  and  natural,  ex- 
cept in  her  account  of  what  had  passed  with  the  body,  which 
she  delighted  to  repeat  again  and  again,  how  Ottilie  had 
raised  herself  up,  had  blessed  her,  had  forgiven  her,  and 
thereby  set  her  at  rest  forever. 

Ottilie  remained  so  long  in  her  beautiful  state,  which  more 
resembled  sleep  than  death,  that  a number  of  persons  were 
attracted  there  to  look  at  her.  Tlie  neighbors  and  the  vil- 
lagers wished  to  see  her  again,  aud  every  one  desired  to  hear 
Nanny’s  incredible  story  from  her  own  mouth.  Many  laughed 
at  it,  most  doubted,  aud  some  few  'sVere  found  who  were  able 
to  believe. 

Difficulties,  for  which  no  real  satisfaction  is  attainable, 
compel  us  to  faith.  Before  the  eyes  of  all  the  world,  Nanny’s 
limbs  had  been  bi’oken,  and  by  touching  the  sacred  body  she 
had  been  restored  to  strength  again.  Why  should  not  others 
find  similar  good  fortune  ? Delicate  mothers  first  privately 
brought  their  children  who  were  suffering  from  obstinate  dis- 
orders, and  they  believed  that  they  could  trace  an  immediate 
improvement.  The  confidence  of  the  people  increased,  aud 
at  last  there  was  no  one  so  old  or  so  weak  as  not  to  have 
come  to  seek  fresh  life  and  health  and  strength  at  this  place. 
The  concourse  became  so  great,  that  they  were  obliged,  ex- 
cept at  the  hours  of  divine  service,  to  keep  the  church  aud 
chapel  closed. 

Edward  did  not  venture  to  look  at  her  again  : he  lived  on 
mechanically ; he  seemed  to  have  no  tears  left,  aud  to  be 
incapable  of  any  further  suffering ; his  power  of  taking  in- 
terest iu  what  was  going  on  diminished  every  day  ; his  appe- 
tite gradually  failed.  The  onlj"  refreshment  which  did  him 
any  good  was  what  he  drank  out  of  the  glass,  which  to  him, 
indeed,  had  been  but  an  untrue  prophet.  He  continued  to 
gaze  at  the  intertwining  initials,  aud  the  earnest  cheerfulness 
of  his  expression  seemed  to  siguif}^  that  he  still  hoped  to  be 
united  with  her  at  last.  And  as  every  little  circumstance 
combines  to  favor  the  fortunate,  aud  every  accident  con- 
tributes to  elate  him  ; so  do  the  most  tridiug  occurrences  love 
to  unite  to  crush  aud  overwhelm  the  unhappy.  One  day,  as 
Edward  raised  the  beloved  glass  to  his  lips,  he  put  it  down, 
and  thrust  it  from  him  with  a shudder.  It  was  the  same, 
and  not  the  same.  He  missed  a little  private  mark  upon 
it.  The  valet  was  questioned,  aud  had  to  confess  that  the 
real  glass  had  not  long  since  been  broken,  and  that  one  like 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


339 


it,  belonging  to  the  same  set,  had  been  substituted  in  its 
place. 

Edward  could  not  be  angry.  His  destiny  had  spoken  out 
with  sufficient  clearness  in  the  fact,  and  how  should  he  be 
affected  by  the  shadow?  and  yet  it  touched  him  deeply.  He 
seemed  now  to  dislike  taking  any  beverage,  aod  thencefor- 
ward purposely  to  abstain  from  food  and  from  speaking. 

But  from  time  to  time  a sort  of  restlessness  came  over 
him  : he  would  desire  to  eat  and  drink  something,  and  would 
begin  again  to  speak.  “Ah!”  he  said  one  day  to  the 
major,  who  now  seldom  left  his  side,  “how  imhappjH  am 
that  all  my  efforts  are  but  imitations  ever,  and  false  and 
fruitless.  What  was  blessedness  to  her,  is  pain  to  me  ; and 
yet,  for  the  sake  of  this  blessedness,  I am  forced  to  take 
this  pain  upon  myself.  I must  go  after  her,  follow  her  by 
the  same  road.  But  my  nature  and  my  promise  hold  me 
back.  It  is  a terrible  difficulty,  indeed,  to  imitate  the  inun- 
itable.  I feel  clearly,  my  dear  friend,  that  genius  is  required 
for  every  thing,  — for  martyrdom  as  well  as  the  rest.” 

What  shall  we  say  of  the  endeavors  which,  in  this  hope- 
less condition,  were  made  for  him?  His  wife,  his  friends, 
his  physician,  incessantly  labored  to  do  something  for  him. 
But  it  was  all  in  vain  : at  last  they  found  him  dead.  Mittler 
was  the  first  to  make  the  melancholy  discovery  : he  called 
the  physician,  and  examined  closely,  with  his  usual  presence 
of  mind,  the  circumstances  under  which  he  had  been  found. 
Charlotte  rushed  in  ; for  she  was  afraid  that  he  had  com- 
mitted suicide,  and  accused  herself  and  accused  others  of 
unpardonable  carelessness.  But  the  physician  on  natural, 
and  Mittler  on  moral,  grounds,  were  soon  able  to  satisfy  her 
of  the  contrary.  It  was  quite  clear  that  Edward’s  end  had 
taken  him  by  surprise.  In  a quiet  moment  he  had  taken 
out  of  his  pocket-book  and  out  of  a casket  every  thing  which 
remained  to  him  as  memorials  of  Ottilie,  and  had  spread 
them  out  before  him,  — a lock  of  hair,  flowers  which  had  been 
gathered  in  some  happy  hour,  and  every  letter  which  she  had 
written  to  him  from  the  first,  which  his  wife  had  ominously 
happened  to  give  him.  It  was  impossible  that  he  would 
intentionally  have  exposed  these  to  the  danger  of  being  seen 
by  the  first  person  who  might  happen  to  discover  him. 

But  so  lay  the  heart,  which,  but  a short  tune  before,  had 
been  so  swift  and  eager,  at  rest  now,  where  it  could  never 
be  disturbed  ; and  falling  asleep,  as  he  did,  with  his  thoughts 
on  one  so  saintly,  he  might  well  be  called  blessed.  Char- 


340 


ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 


lotte  gave  him  his  place  at  Ottilie’s  side,  and  arranged  that 
thenceforth  no  other  person  should  be  placed  with  them  in 
the  same  vault. 

In  order  to  secure  this,  she  made  it  a condition  under  which 
she  settled  considerable  sums  of  money  on  the  church  and 
^ the  school. 

So  lie  the  lovers,  sleeping  side  by  side.  Peace  hovers 
^ above  their  resting-place.  Fair  angel  faces  gaze  down  upon 
them  from  the  vaulted  ceiling ; and  what  a happy  moment 
that  will  be  when  one  day  they  wake  again  together ! 


THE  GOOD  WOMEN. 


Henrietta  and  Armidoro  had  been  for  some  time  engaged 
in  walking  throngli  the  garden,  in  which  the  Summer  Club 
was  accustomed  to  assemble.  It  had  long  been  their  prac- 
tice to  arrive  before  the  other  members  ; for  they  entertained 
the  warmest  attachment  to  each  other,  and  their  pure  and 
virtuous  friendship  fostered  the  delightful  hope  that  they 
would  shortly  be  united  in  the  bonds  of  unchanging  affection. 

Henrietta,  who  was  of  a lively  disposition,  no  sooner  per- 
ceived her  friend  Amelia  approach  the  summer-house  from  a 
distance,  than  she  ran  to  welcome  her.  The  latter  was 
already  seated  at  a table  in  the  ante-chamber,  where  the 
newspapers,  journals,  and  other  recent  publications,  lay 
displayed. 

It  was  her  custom  to  spend  occasional  evenings  in  reading 
in  this  apartment,  without  jiaying  attention  to  the  company 
who  came  and  went,  or  suffering  herself  to  be  disturbed  by 
the  rattling  of  the  dice,  or  the  loud  conversation  which  pre- 
vailed at  the  gaming-tables.  She  spoke  little,  except  for  the 
purpose  of  rational  conversation.  Henrietta,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  not  so  sparing  of  her  words  ; being  of  an  easily' 
satisfied  disposition,  and  ever  ready  with  expressions  of 
commendation.  They  were  soon  joined  by  a third  person, 
whom  we  shall  call  Sinclair.  “ What  news  do  you  bring?  ” 
exclaimed  Henrietta,  addressing  liim  as  he  approached. 

“You  will  scarcely  guess,”  replied  Sinclair,  as  he  opened 
a portfolio.  “ And  even  if  I inform  you  that  I have  brought 
for  your  inspection  the  engravings  intended  for  the  ‘ Ladies’ 
Almanac  ’ of  this  year,  you  will  hardly  guess  the  subjects 
they  portray  ; but  when  I tell  you  that  yoimg  ladies  are  rep- 
resented in  a series  of  twelve  engravings  ’ ’ — 


341 


342 


THE  GOOD  WOMEN. 


“Indeed!  ” exclaimed  Henrietta,  interrupting  him,  “j'ou 
have  no  intention,  I perceive,  of  putting  our  ingenuity  to 
the  test.  You  jest,  if  I mistake  not;  for  you  know  how  I 
delight  in  riddles  and  charades,  and  in  guessing  my  friends’ 
enigmas.  Twelve  young  ladies,  you  say,  — sketches  of  char- 
acter, I suppose  ; some  adventures  or  situations,  or  some- 
thing else  tliat  redounds  to  the  honor  of  the  sex.” 

Sinclair  smiled  in  silence  ; whilst  Amelia  watched  him  with 
calm  composure,  and  then  remarked,  with  that  line  sarcastic 
tone  which  so  well  became  her,  “If  I read  his  countenance 
truly,  he  has  something  to  i>roduce  of  which  we  shall  not 
quite  approve.  Men  are  so  fond  of  discovering  something 
which  shall  have  the  appearance  of  turning  us  into  ridi- 
cule.” 

Sinclair.  — You  ai’e  becoming  serious,  Amelia,  and  threat- 
en to  grow  satirical.  1 shall  scarcely  venture  to  open  my 
little  packet. 

Henrietta.  — Oh  ! produce  it. 

Sinclair.  — They  are  caricatures. 

Henrietta.  — 1 love  them  of  all  things. 

Sinclair.  — Sketches  of  naughty  ladies. 

Henrietta.  — So  much  the  better : we  do  not  belong  to 
that  class.  Their  portraits  would  afford  us  as  little  pleasure 
as  their  society. 

Sinclair.  — Shall  I show  them? 

Henrietta.  — Do  so  at  once. 

So  saying,  she  snatched  the  portfolio  from  him.  took  out 
the  pictures,  spread  six  of  them  upon  the  table,  glanced  over 
them  hastily,  and  then  shuffled  them  together  as  if  they  had 
been  a pack  of  cards.  “Capital!”  she  exclaimed : “they 
are  done  to  the  A-ery  life.  This  one,  for  instance,  holding  a 
pinch  of  snuff  to  her  nose,  is  the  very  image  of  Madame 

S , whom  Ave  shall  meet  this  eA’ening ; and  this  old  lady 

with  the  cat  is  not  unlike  m}'  grand-aunt ; that  figure  holding 
the  skein  of  thread  resembles  our  old  milliner.  We  can 
find  an  original  for  eA'ery  one  of  these  ugly  figures ; and 
CA^eu  amongst  the  men,  I haA'e  someAA'here  or  other  seen  snch 
an  old  fellow  bent  double,  and  also  a close  resemblance  to 
the  figure  holding  the  thread.  Thej^  are  full  of  fun,  these 
engravings,  and  admirably  executed.” 

Amelia,  avIio  had  glanced  carelessly  at  the  pictures  and 
instantly  withdrawn  her  eyes,  inquired  how  they  could  look 
for  resemblances  in  such  things.  “ One  deformity  is  like 
another,  just  as  the  beautiful  CA^er  resembles  the  beautiful. 


THE  GOOD  WOMEN. 


343 


Oiu-  minds  are  irresistibl}'  attracted  by  the  latter  in  the  same 
degree  as  the}'  are  repelled  by  the  former. 

Sinclair.  — But  our  fancy  and  our  wit  find  more  amuse- 
ment in  deformity  than  in  beauty.  Much  can  be  made  of 
the  former,  but  nothing  at  all  of  the  latter. 

“But  beauty  exalts,  whilst  deformity  degrades,  us,”  ob- 
served Armidoro,  who,  from  his  post  at  the  window,  had 
paid  silent  attention  to  all  that  had  occurred.  Without  ap- 
proaching the  table,  he  now  withdrew  into  the  adjoining 
cabinet. 

All  clubs  have  their  peculiar  epochs.  The  interest  the 
members  take  in  each  other,  and  their  friendly  agreement, 
are  of  a fiuctuating  character.  The  club  of  which  we  speak 
had  now  attained  its  zenith.  The  members  were,  for  the 
most  part,  men  of  refinement,  or  at  least  of  calm  and  quiet 
deportment : they  mutually  recognized  each  other’s  value, 
and  allowed  all  want  of  merit  to  find  its  own  level.  Each 
one  sought  his  own  individual  amusement,  and  the  general 
conversation  was  often  of  a nature  to  attract  attention. 

At  this  time,  a gentleman  named  Seyton  arrived,  accom- 
panied by  his  wife.  He  was  a man  who  had  seen  much  of 
the  world,  first  from  his  engagement  in  business,  and  after- 
wards in  iwlitical  affairs  : he  was,  moreover,-  an  agreeable 
companion  ; although,  in  mixed  society,  he  was  chiefly  re- 
markable for  his  talent  as  a card-player.  His  wife  was  a 
worthy  woman,  kind  and  faithful,  and  enjoying  the  most 
perfect  confidence  and  esteem  of  her  husband.  She  felt 
happy  that  she  could  now  give  uncontrolled  indulgence  to 
her  taste  for  pleasure.  At  home  she  could  not  exist  without 
a companion,  and  she  found  in  amusement  and  diversions 
the  only  incentive  to  home  enjoyment. 

We  must  treat  our  readers  as  strangers,  or  rather  as  vis- 
itors to  the  club  ; and  in  full  confidence  we  must  introduce 
them  speedily  to  our  new  society.  A poet  paints  his  char- 
acters by  describing  their  actions  : we  must  adopt  a shorter 
course,  and  by  a hasty  sketch  introduce  our  readers  rapidly 
to  the  scenes. 

Seytou  approached  the  table  and  looked  at  the  pictures. 

“A  discussion  has  arisen,”  observed  Henrietta,  “with 
respect  to  caricatures.  What  side  do  you  take  ? I am  in 
favor  of  them,  and  wish  to  know  whether  all  caricatures  do 
not  possess  something  irresistibly  attractive?  ” 

Amelia.  — And  does  not  every  evil  calumny,  provide  it 
relate  to  the  absent,  also  possess  an  incredible  charm  ? 


344 


THE  GOOD  WOMEX. 


Henrietta. — But  does  not  a sketch  of  this  kind  produce 
an  indelible  impression  ? 

Amelia.  — And  that  is  just  the  reason  ’n'hy  I condemn  it. 
Is  not  the  indelible  impression  of  what  is  disagreeable  pre- 
cisely the  evil  which  so  constantly  pursues  us  in  life  and 
destroys  our  greatest  enjoyments  ? 

Henrietta.  — Favor  us,  Sejdon,  with  your  opinion. 

Seyton.  — I should  propose  a compromise.  Why  should 
our  pictures  be  better  than  ourselves?  Our  nature  seems 
to  have  two  sides,  which  cannot  exist  separately.  Light 
and  darkness,  good  and  evil,  height  and  depth,  virtue  and 
vice,  and  a thousand  other  contradictions  unequallj’  dis- 
tributed, appear  to  constitute  the  component  parts  of  human 
nature ; and  why,  therefore,  should  I blame  an  artist,  who, 
whilst  he  paints  an  angel  bright,  brilliant,  and  beautiful,  on 
the  other  hand  paints  a devil  black,  ugly,  and  hateful? 

Amelia.  — There  could  be  no  objection  to  such  a course, 
if  caricaturists  did  not  introduce  within  their  province  sub- 
jects which  belong  to  higher  spheres. 

Seyton.  — So  far,  1 think  you  perfectly  right.  But  artists, 
whose  province  is  the  Beautiful  alone,  also  appropriate  what 
does  not  precisel}’  belong  to  them. 

Amelia.  — I have  no  patience,  however,  with  caricaturists 
who  ridicule  the  portraits  of  eminent  men.  In  spite  of  my 
better  sense,  I can  never  consider  that  great  man  Pitt  as  any 
thing  else  than  a snub-nosed  broomstick  ; and  Fox,  who  was 
in  many  respects  an  estimable  character,  any  thing  better 
than  a pig  stuffed  to  its  utmost  capacity. 

Henrietta. — Precisely  my  view.  Caricatures  of  such  a 
nature  make  an  indelible  impression,  and  I cannot  deny  that 
it  often  aff’oitls  amusement  to  evoke  their  recollection  and 
pervert  them  even  into  worse  distortions. 

Sinclair. — But,  ladies,  allow  us  to  revert  for  a moment 
from  this  discussion  to  a consideration  of  our  engravings. 

Seyton.  — I observe  that  a fancj'  for  dogs  is  here  deline- 
ated in  no  veiy  flattering  manner. 

Amelia.  — I have  no  objection,  for  I detest  these  animals. 

Sinclair.  — First  an  enemj'  to  caricatures,  and  then  un- 
friendlj"  to  the  dog  tribe. 

Amelia.  — And  why  not?  What  are  such  animals  but 
caricatures  of  men? 

Seyton. — ^You  probably  remeniber  what  a certain  traveller 
relates  of  the  city  of  Griitz,  “ that  the  place  was  full  of  dogs, 
and  of  dumb  persons  half  idiotic.”  Might  it  not  be  possible 


THE  GOOD  WOMEN. 


345 


that  the  habitual  sight  of  so  many  barking,  senseless  animals 
should  have  produced  an  effect  upon  the  human  race  ? 

Sinclair.  — Our  attachment  to  animals  deteriorates  our 
passions  and  affections. 

Amelia.  — But  if  our  reason,  according  to  the  general 
expression,  is  sometimes  capable  of  standing  still,  it  may 
surely  do  so  in  the  presence  of  dogs. 

Sinclair.  — Fortunately  there  is  no  one  in  our  company 
who  cares  for  dogs  but  Madame  Seyton.  She  is  very  much 
attached  to  her  pretty  greyhound. 

Seyton. — And  that  same  animal  is  particularly  dear  and 
valuable  to  her  husband. 

Madame  Seyton,  from  a distance,  raised  her  finger  in 
threat  of  her  husband. 

Seyton.  — I know  a proof  that  such  animals  detach  our 
affections  from  their  legitimate  objects.  May  I not,  my 
dear  child  (addressing  his  wife),  relate  our  anecdote?  We 
need  not  be  ashamed  of  it. 

Madame  Seyton  signified  her  assent  by  a friendly  nod,  and 
he  commenced  his  narration. 

“We  loved  each  other,  and  had  entered  into  an  engage- 
ment to  marry  before  we  had  well  considered  the  possibility 
of  supporting  an  establishment.  At  length  better  hopes 
began  to  dawn,  when  I was  unexpectedly  compelled  to  set 
out  upon  a journey  which  threatened  to  last  longer  than  I 
could  have  wished.  On  my  departure  I forgot  my  favor- 
ite greyhound.  It  had  often  been  in  the  habit  of  accompany- 
ing me  to  the  house  of  my  betrothed,  sometimes  returning 
with  me,  and  occasionally  remaining  behind.  It  now  became 
her  property,  was  a cheerful  companion,  and  reminded  her 
of  my  return.  At  home  the  little  animal  afforded  much 
amusement ; and  in  the  promenades,  where  we  had  so  often 
walked  together,  it  seemed  constantly  engaged  in  looking 
for  me,  and  barked  as  if  announcing  me,  as  it  sprang  from 
among  the  trees.  My  darling  little  Meta  amused  itself  thus 
for  a considerable  time  by  fancying  me  really  present,  until 
at  length,  about  the  time  when  I had  hoped  to  return,  the 
period  of  my  absence  being  again  indefinitely  prolonged,  the 
poor  animal  pined  away  and  died.’’ 

Madame  Seyton. — Just  so,  dear  husband.  And  your 
narrative  is  sweetly  interesting. 

Seyton. — You  are  quite  at  liberty  to  interrupt  me,  my 
dear,  if  you  think  fit.  My  friend’s  house  now  seemed  deso- 
late ; lier  walks  had  lost  all  their  interest ; her  favorite  dog. 


346 


THE  GOOD  WOMEN. 


which  had  ever  been  at  her  side  when  she  wrote  to  me,  had 
grown  to  he  an  actual  necessity  of  existence  ; and  her  letters 
were  now  discontinued.  She  found,  however,  some  conso- 
lation in  tlie  company  of  a handsome  youth,  who  evinced  an 
anxiety  to  fill  the  place  of  her  former  four-footed  com- 
panion, both  in  the  house  and  on  her  walks.  But  without 
enlarging  on  this  subject,  and  let  me  be  ever  so  inimical  to 
rash  judgments,  I may  say  that  matters  began  to  assume  a 
rather  critical  appearance. 

Madame  Seyton. — I must  let  you  continue.  A story 
which  is  all  truth,  and  wholly  free  from  exaggeration,  is 
seldom  worth  hearing. 

Seyton.  — A mutual  friend,  versed  in  the  world,  and 
acquainted  with  human  nature,  continued  to  reside  near  my 
dear  friend  after  my  departure.  He  paid  frequent  visits  at 
her  house,  and  had  noticed  the  change  she  had  undergone. 
He  formed  his  plan  in  secrecy,  and  called  upon  her  one  day, 
accompanied  by  a greyhound  which  precisely  resembled 
mine.  The  cordially  affectionate  and  appropriate  address 
with  which  he  accompanied  his  present,  the  unexpected 
appearance  of  a favorite  which  seemed  to  liave  risen  from 
the  grave,  the  silent  rebuke  with  which  her  susceptible  heart 
reproached  her  at  the  sight,  brought  back  to  her  mind  a 
lively  recollection  of  me.  My  young  friend,  who  had 
hitherto  filled  my  place,  accordingly  received  his  conge  in 
the  politest  manner  possible ; and  the  new  favorite  was 
retained  by  the  lady  as  her  constant  companion.  When, 
upon  my  return,  I held  my  beloved  in  m3'  embrace,  I thought 
the  gre3’hound  was  my  own,  and  wondered  not  a little  that 
he  barked  at  me  as  at  a stranger.  I thought  that  dogs  of 
the  preseut  day  had  far  less  faithful  memories  than  those  of 
classical  times,  and  observed  that  Ul3’sses  had  been  remem- 
bered by  his  dog  after  many  years’  absence,  whilst  mine  had 
forgotten  me  in  an  incredibl}' short  space  of  time.  "And 
yet  he  has  taken  good  care  of  3’our  Penelope,”  she  replied, 
promising  at  the  same  time  to  explain  her  mysterious  speech. 
This  was  soon  done,  for  cheerful  confidence  has  at  all  times 
caused  the  happiness  of  our  union. 

Madame  Seyton.  — Well,  now,  conclude  with  the  anec- 
dote. If  3'ou  please,  I will  walk  for  an  hour ; for  3'ou 
intend  doubtless  to  sit  down  to  the  card-table. 

He  nodded  his  assent.  She  took  the  arm  of  her  com- 
panion, and  went  towards  the  door.  “Take  the  dog  with 
3’OU,  my  dear!  ” he  exclaimed  as  she  departed.  The  entire 


THE  GOOD  WOMEN. 


347 


company  smiled,  as  did  Seyton  also,  when  he  saw  how  apt 
had  been  his  unintentional  observation ; and  every  one  else 
silently  felt  a trifling  degree  of  malicious  satisfaction. 

Sinclair.  — You  have  told  us  of  a dog  that  was  happily 
instrumental  in  promoting  a marriage  : I can  tell  of  another 
whose  influence  destroyed  one.  I was  also  once  in  love, 
and  it  was  also  m3'  fate  to  set  out  upon  a journey ; and 
I also  left  my  love  behind  me,  with  this  difference  : my  wish 
to  possess  her  was  as  yet  unknown  to  her.  At  length  I 
returned.  The  many  adventures  in  which  I had  engaged 
were  strongly  imprinted  upon  my  mind.  Like  all  travellers 
I was  fond  of  recounting  them,  and  I hoped  by  this  means 
to  win  the  attention  and  sympathy  of  my  beloved.  I was 
anxious  that  she  should  know  all  the  experience  I had 
acquired,  and  the  pleasures  I had  enjoyed.  But 'I  found 
that  her  attention  was  wholly  directed  to  a dog.  Whether 
this  was  done  from  that  spirit  of  opjjosition  which  so  often 
characterizes  the  fair  sex,  or  whether  it  arose  from  some 
unlucky  accident,  it  so  happened  that  the  amiable  qualities 
of  the  dog,  their  prett3'  amusements,  and  her  attachment  to 
the  little  animal,  were  the  sole  topics  of  conversation  which 
she  could  find  for  a lover  who  had  long  been  passionately 
devoted  to  her.  I marvelled,  and  ceased  speaking ; then 
related  various  other  circumstances  I had  reserved  for  her 
whilst  I was  absent.  I then  felt  vexed  at  her  coldness,  and 
took  my  leave,  but  soon  returned  with  feelings  of  self- 
reproach,  and  became  even  more  unhappy  than  before. 
Under  these  circumstances  our  attachment  cooled,  our  ac- 
quaintance was  discontinued  ; and  I felt  in  m3'  heart  that  I 
might  attribute  the  misfortune  to  a dog. 

Armidoro,  who  had  once  more  joined  the  company  from 
the  cabinet,  observed,  upon  hearing  the  anecdote,  “that  it 
would  be  interesting  to  make  a collection  of  stories  showing 
the  influence  social  animals  of  the  lower  order  exercise  over 
mankind.  In  the  expectation  that  such  a collection  will  be 
one  day  made,  I will  relate  an  anecdote  to  show  how  a dog 
was  the  cause  of  a very  tragical  occurrence. 

“ Ferrand  and  Cardano,  two  noblemen,  had  been  attached 
friends  from  their  very  earliest  youth.  As  court-pages,  and 
as  officers  in  the  same  regiment,  they  had  shared  many 
adventures  together,  and  had  become  thoroughl3'  acquainted 
with  each  other’s  dispositions.  Cardano’s  attraction  was 
the  fair  sex,  whilst  Ferrand  had  a passion  fqr  gambling. 
Tlie  former  was  thoughtless  and  haqghty,  the  livtter  suspi- 


348 


THE  GOOD  WOMEN. 


cious  and  reserved.  It  happened,  at  a time  when  Cardano 
was  accidentally  obliged  to  break  off  a certain  tender  attach- 
ment, that  he  left  a beautiful  little  pet  spaniel  behind  him. 
He  soon  procured  another,  which  he  aftei^wards  presented  to 
a second  lady,  from  whom  he  was  about  to  separate  ; and 
from  that  time,  upon  taking  leave  of  every  new  female 
friend  with  whom  he  had  become  intimate,  he  invariably 
presented  her  with  a similar  little  spaniel.  Ferrand  was 
aware  of  Cardano’s  peculiar  habit  in  this  respect,  but  he 
never  paid  much  attention  to  the  circumstance. 

“ The  different  pursuits  of  the  two  friends  at  length 
caused  a long  separation  between  them  ; and,  when  they  | 
next  met,  Ferrand  had  become  a married  man,  and  was 
leading  the  life  of  a countiy  gentleman.  Cardano  spent 
some  time  with  him,  either  at  his  house 'or  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, where,  as  he  had  many  relations  and  friends,  he 
resided  for  nearly  a year. 

“Upon  his  departure,  Ferrand’s  attention  was  attracted 
by  a very  beautiful  spaniel  of  which  his  wife  had  lately 
become  possessed.  He  took  it  in  his  arms,  admired  its 
beauty,  stroked  it,  praised  it,  and  inquired  where  she  had 
obtained  so  charming  an  animal.  She  replied,  ‘ From  Car- 
dano.’ He  was  at  once  struck  with  the  memory  of  by-gone 
times  and  events,  and  with  a recollection  of  the  significant 
memorial  with  which  Cardano  was  accustomed  to  mark  his 
insincerity : he  felt  oppressed  with  the  indignity  of  an 
injured  husband,  raged  violentljq  flung  the  innocent  little 
animal  with  fury  to  the  earth,  and  ran  from  the  apartment 
amid  the  cries  of  the  spaniel  and  the  supplications  of  his 
astonished  wife.  A fearful  dispute  and  countless  disagree- 
able consequences  ensued,  which,  though  they  did  not  pro- 
duce an  actual  divorce,  ended  in  a mutual  agreement  to 
separate  ; and  a ruined  household  was  the  termination  of 
this  adventure.” 

The  stoi'y  was  not  quite  finished  when  Eulalia  entered  the 
apartment.  She  was  a J’oung  lad}’  whose  society  was  uui- 
vereally  sought  after ; and  she  formed  one  of  the  most 
attractive  ornaments  of  the  club,  — an  accomplished  woman 
and  successful  authoress. 

The  female  caricatures  were  laid  before  her  with  which  a 
clever  artist  had  sinned  against  the  fair  sex,  and  she  was 
invited  to  defend  her  good  sisterhood. 

“Probably,”  said  Amelia,  “a  collection  of  these  charm- 
ing portraits  is  intended  for  the  almanac,  and  possibly  some 


THE  GOOD  WOMEN. 


349 


ll 

celebrated  author  will  undertake  the  witty  task  of  explaining 
I - in  words  what  the  ingenious  artist  has  represented  in  his 
i pictures.” 

! Sinclair  felt  that  the  pictures  were  not  worthy  of  utter 
^ condemnation  ; nor  could  he  deny  that  some  sort  of  explana- 
tion of  their  meaning  was  necessary,  as  a caricature  which 
‘ is  not  understood  is  worthless,  and  is,  in  fact,  only  valuable 
! for  its  application.  For,  however  the  ingenious  artist  may 
I endeavor  to  display  his  wit,  he  cannot  always  succeed ; and 
without  a title  or  an  explanation  his  labor  is  lost : words 
alone  can  give  it  value. 

Amelia.  — Then,  let  words  bestow  a value  upon  this  little 
I picture.  A young  lady  has  fallen  asleep  in  an  arm-chair, 
having  been  engaged,  as  it  appears,  with  some  sort  of  writ- 
j iug.  Another  lady,  who  stands  by  weeping,  presents  a 
small  box,  or  something  else,  to  her  companion.  What  can 
it  mean  ? 

Sinclair.  — Am  I,  after  all,  to  explain  it,  notwithstanding 
that  the  ladies  seem  but  ill  disposed  both  to  caricatures  and 
their  expounders  ? I am  told  that  it  is  intended  to  represent 
I an  authoress,  who  was  accustomed  to  compose  at  night : she 
always  obliged  her  maid  to  hold  her  inkstand,  and  forced  the 
poor  creature  to  remain  in  that  posture,  even  when  she  her- 
' self  had  been  overcome  by  sleep,  and  the  office  of  her  maid 
: had  thus  been  rendered  useless.  She  was  desirous,  on 

^ awaking,  tg  resume  the  thread  of  her  thoughts  and  of  her 
i composition,  and  wished  to  find  her  pen  and  ink  ready  at  the 

■ same  moment. 

j Arbon,  a thoughtful  artist  who  had  accompanied  Eulalia, 

I declared  war  against  the  picture.  He  observed,  that  to  de- 
lineate this  circumstance,  or  whatever  it  may  be  called,  an- 
il other  course  should  have  been  adopted, 
i Henrietta.  — Let  us,  then,  compose  the  picture  afresh. 

I Arhon.  — But  let  us  first  of  all  consider  the  subject  atten-  . 
tively.  It  seems  natural  enough  that  a person  employed  in 
writing  should  cause  the  inkstand  to  be  held,  if  the  cir- 

■ cumstances  are  such  that  no  place  can  be  found  to  set  it 
, down.  So  Brantome’s  grandmother  held  the  inkstand  for 

the  Queen  of  Navarre,  when  the  latter,  reposing  in  her 
i litter,  composed  the  history  which  we  have  all  read  w'ith  so 
much  pleasure.  Again,  that  any  one  who  writes  in  bed  should 
cause  his  inkstand  to  be  held,  is  quite  conceivable.  But  tell 
I us,  pretty  Henrietta,  you  who  are  so  fond  of  questioning  and 
i guessing,  tell  us  what  the  artist  should  have  done  to  repre- 
I sent  this  subject  properly. 


350 


THE  GOOD  WOMEN. 


Henrietta.  — He  ought  to  have  removed  the  table,  and 
given  the  sleeper  such  an  attitude,  that  nothing  should  ap- 
pear at  hand  upon  which  an  inkstand  could  be  placed. 

Arbon.  — Quite  right.  I should  have  drawn  her  in  a well- 
cushioned  easy-chair,  of  the  fashion  which,  if  I mistake  not, 
are  calle  1 Berg^res : she  should  have  been  near  the  fireplace, 
and  pr<  mting  a front  view  to  the  spectator.  I should  sup- 
pose he  o be  engaged  in  writing  upon  her  knee,  for  usually 
one  beet-  es  uncomfortable  in  exacting  an  inconvenience  from 
another  The  paper  sinks  upon  her  lap,  the  pen  from  her 
hand  ; a 1 a sweet  maiden  stands  near,  holding  the  inkstand 
with  a f-  lorn  look. 

Hen'  ta.  — Quite  right.  But  here  we  have  an  inkstand 
upon  able  already  ; and  ■what  is  to  be  done,  therefore,  with 
the  in,  nd  in  the  hand  of  the  maiden  ? It  is  not  easy  to 
eoncei-i  why  she  should  seem  to  be  wiping  away  her 
tears. 

Sinclair.  — Here  I defend  the  artist':  he  allows  scope  for 
the  ingenuity  of  the  commentator. 

Arbon.  — Who  will  probably  be  engaged  in  exercising  his 
wit  upon  the  headless  men  that  hang  against  the  wall. 
This  seems  to  me  a clear  proof  of  the  inevitable  confusion 
that  arises  from  uniting  arts  between  which  there  is  no 
natural  connection.  If  we  ■were  not  acenstomed  to  see  en- 
gravings with  explanations  appended  to  them,  the  evil  would 
cease.  I have  no  objection  that  a clever  artist  should  at- 
tempt witty  representations  ; but  they  are  difficult  to  execute, 
and  he  should  at  all  events  endeavor  to  make  his  subject  in- 
dependent of  explanations.  I could  even  tolerate  remarks 
and  little  sentences  issuing  from  the  mouths  of  his  figures, 
provided  he  turn  his  own  commentator. 

Sinclair.  — But,  if  you  allow  such  a thing  as  a witty  pic- 
ture, you  must  admit  that  it  is  intended  only  for  persons 
of  intelligence  ; it  can  possess  an  attraction  for  none  but 
those  conversant  with  the  occuircnces  of  the  day  : why,  then, 
should  we  object  to  a commentator  who  enables  us  to  under- 
stand the  nature  of  the  intellectual  amusement  prepared  for 
us? 

Arbon.  — I have  no  objection  to  explanations  of  pic- 
tures which  fail  to  explain  themselves.  But  they  should  be 
short  and  to  the  point.  Wit  is  for  the  well-informed,  they 
alone  can  understand  a witty  work ; and  the  productions  of 
by-gone  times  and  foreign  lands  are  eom})letely  lost  uixm  us. 
It  is  all  well  enough  with  the  aid  of  such  notes  as  we  find 


THE  GOOD  WOMEN. 


351 


appended  to  Rabelais  and  Hudibras,  but  what  should  we  say 
of  an  author  who  should  find  it  necessary  to  write  one  witty 
work  to  elucidate  another?  Wit,  even  when  fresh  from  its 
fountain,  is  oftentimes  feeble  enough  : it  will  scarcely  become 
stronger  by  passing  through  two  or  three  hands.  !• 

Sinclair.  — How  I wish,  that,  instead  of  thus 'r  arguing, 
we  could  assist  our  friend,  the  owner  of  these  oictures, 
who  would  be  glad  to  hear  the  opinions  that  ' ive  been 
expressed.  me 

Armidoro.  — (Coming  from  the  cabinet.)  I pei  eive  that 
the  company  is  still  engaged  with  these  much-ceniiared  pic- 
tures : had  they  produced  a pleasant  impression,  tr^y  would 
doubtless  have  been  laid  aside  loug  ago.  S 

Amelia.  — I propose  that  that  be  their  fate  J : the 
owner  must  be  required  to  make  no  use  of  them/  What! 
a dozen  and  more  hateful,  objectionable  pictures  appear 
in  a Ladies’  Almanac  I Can  the  man  be  blind  tc  is  own 
interest?  He  will  ruin  his  speculation.  What  loverwill  pre- 
sent a copy  to  his  mistress,  what  husband  to  his  wife,  what 
father  to  his  daughter,  when  the  first  glance  will  display  such 
a libel  upon  the  sex? 

Armidoro.  — I have  a proposal  to  make.  These  objec- 
tionable pictures  are  not  the  first  of  the  kind  which  have  ap- 
peared in  the  best  almanacs.  Our  celebrated  Chodovieeki 
has,  in  his  collection  of  monthly  engravings,  already  repre- 
sented scenes,  not  only  untrue  to  nature,  but  low,  and  devoid 
of  all  pretensions  to  taste  ; but  how  did  he  do  it  ? Opposite 
the  pictures  I allude  to,  he  delineated  others  of  a most 
charming  character,  — scenes  in  perfect  harmony  with  nature, 
the  result  of  a high  education,  of  long  study,  and  of  an  innate 
taste  for  the  Good  and  Beautiful.  Let  us  go  a step  beyond 
the  editor  of  the  proposed  almanac,  and  act  in  opposition 
to  his  project.  If  the  intelligent  artist  has  chosen  to  por- 
tray the  dark  side  of  his  subject,  let  our  author  or  authoress, 
if  I may  dare  to  express  my  view,  choose  the  bright  side  to 
exercise  her  talents,  and  so  form  a complete  work.  I shall 
not  longer  delay,  Eulalia,  to  unite  my  own  wishes  to  this 
proposal.  Undertake  a description  of  good  female  charac- 
ters. Create  the  opposite  to  these  engravings,  and  employ 
the  charm  of  your  pen,  not  to  elucidate  these  pictures,  but  to 
annihilate  them. 

Sinclair.  — Do,  Eulalia.  Render  us  that  favor : make 
haste  and  promise  I 

Eulalia. — Authors  are  ever  apt  to  promise  too  easily. 


352 


THE  GOOD  WOMEN. 


because  they  hope  for  ability  to  execute  their  wishes ; but 
experience  has  rendered  me  cautious.  And  even  if  I 
could  foresee  the  necessary  leisure,  within  so  short  a space 
of  time,  I should  yet  hesitate  to  undertake  the  arduous 
duty.  The  praises  of  our  sex  should  be  spoken  by  a man, 
— a young,  ardent,  loving  man.  A degree  of  enthusiasm  is 
requisite  for  the  task,  and  who  has  enthusiasm  for  one’s  own 
sex? 

Armidoro.  — I should  prefer  intelligence,  justice,  and 
delicacy  of  taste. 

Sinclair.  — And  who  can  discourse  better  on  the  char- 
acter of  good  women  than  the  authoress  from  whose  fah’y-tale 
of  yesterday  we  all  derived  such  pleasure  and  so  much  incom- 
parable instruction  ? 

Eulalia.  — The  fairy-tale  was  not  mine. 

Sinclair.  — Not  yours? 

Armidoro.  — To  that  I can  bear  witness. 

Sinclair.  — But  still  it  was  a lady’s? 

Eulalia.  — The  production  of  a friend. 

Sinclair.  — Then,  there  are  two  Eulalias. 

Eulalia.  — Many,  perhaps  ; and  better  than  — 

Armidoro.  — Will  you  relate  to  the  company  what  you  so 
lately  confided  to  me?  You  will  all  hear  with  astonishment 
how  this  delightful  production  originated. 

Eulalia. — A 3'oung  ladj',  with  whose  great  excellence  I 
became  accidentally  acquainted  upon  a journey,  found  her- 
self once  in  a situation  of  extreme  perplexity,  the  circum- 
stances of  which  it  would  be  tedious  to  narrate.  A gentleman 
to  whom  she  was  under  many  obligations,  and  who  finally 
offered  her  his  hand,  having  won  her  entire  esteem  and  eoufi- 
denee,  in  a moment  of  weakness  obtained  from  her  the  privi- 
leges of  a husband  before  their  vows  of  love  had  been 
cemented  by  marriage.  Some  peculiar  circumstances  com- 
pelled him  to  travel ; and,  in  the  retirement  of  a country 
residence,  she  anticipated  with  fear  and  apprehension  the 
moment  when  she  should  become  a mother.  She  used  to 
write  to  me  daily,  and  informed  me  of  every  circumstance 
that  happened.  But  there  was  shortly  nothing  more  to 
fear  — she  now  needed  only  patience  ; and  I observed,  from 
the  tone  of  her  letters,  that  she  began  to  reflect  with  a dis- 
turbed mind  upon  all  that  had  already  occurred,  and  upon 
what  was  yet  to  take  place  in  her  regard.  I determined,  there- 
fore, to  address  her  in  an  earnest  tone,  on  the  duty  she  owed 
no  less  to  herself  than  to  her  infant,  whose  support,  partic- 


THE  GOOD  WOMEN. 


353 


iilarly  at  the  commencement  of  its  existence,  depended  so 
much  upon  her  mind  being  free  from  anxiety.  I sought  to 
console  and  to  cheer  her,  and  happened  to  send  her  several 
i volumes  of  fairy-tales  she  had  wished  to  read.  Her 
own  desh'e  to  escape  from  the  burden  of  her  melancholy 
thoughts,  and  the  arrival  of  these  books,  formed  a remark- 
able coincidence.  She  could  not  help  reflecting  frequently 
upon  her  peculiar  fate  ; and  she  therefore  adopted  the  expe- 
dient of  clothing  all  her  past  sorrowful  adventures,  as  well  as 
her  painful  .apprehensions  for  the  future,  in  a garb  of  ro- 
mance. The  events  of  her  past  life,  — her  attachment,  her 
, passion,  her  errors,  and  her  sweet  maternal  cares,  — no  less 
than  her  present  sad  condition,  were  all  embodied  by  her 
imagination  in  fonns  vivid,  though  impalpable,  and  passed 
before  her  mind  in  a varied  succession  of  strange  and  un- 
earthly fancies.  Pen  in  hand,  she  spent  many  a day  and 
i night  noting  down  her  reflections. 

Amelia. — In  which  occupation  she  must  have  found  it 
difficult  to  hold  her  inkstand. 

Eulalia.  — Thus  did  I acquire  the  rare  collection  of  letters 
which  I now  possess.  They  are  all  picturesque,  strange,  and 
■ romantic.  I never  received  from  her  an  account  of  any  thing 
1 actual,  so  that  I sometimes  trembled  for  her  reason.  Her 
: own  situation,  the  birth  of  her  infant,  her  sweet  affection  for 
her  offspring,  her  joys,  her  hopes,  and  her  maternal  fears, 
were  all  treated  as  events  of  another  world,  from  which  she 
only  expected  to  be  liberated  by  the  arrival  of  her  husband. 
On  her  nuptial  day  she  concluded  the  fairy-tale  which  you 
heard  recited  yesterday,  almost  in  her  own  words,  and  which 
' derives  its  chief  interest  from  the  urrusual  circumstances 
under  which  it  was  composed. 

The  companj"  could  not  sufficiently  express  their  astonish- 
ment at  this  statement;  and  Seytou,  wffio  had  abandoned  his 
place  at  the  gaming-table  to  another  person,  now  entered  the 
apartment,  and  made  inquiries  concerning  the  subject  of  con- 
versation. He  was  briefly  informed  that  it  related  to  a fairy- 
tale, which,  partly  founded  on  facts,  had  been  composed  by 
the  fantastic  imagination  of  a mind  not  altogether  sound. 

“ It  is  a great  pity,”  he  remarked,  “ that  private  diaries 
are  so  completely  out  of  fashion.  Twenty  years  ago  they 
were  in  general  use,  and  many  persons  thought  they  possessed 
a veritable  treasure  in  the  record  of  their  daily  thoughts.  I 
recollect  a very  worthy  lady  upon  whom  this  custom  entailed 
, a sad  misfortune.  A certain  governess  had  been  accustonred 


354 


THE  GOOD  WOJMEN. 


from  her  earliest  youth  to  keep  a regular  diary  ; and,  in  fact, 
she  considered  its  composition  to  form  an  indispensable  part 
of  her  daily  duties.  She  continued  the  habit  when  she  grew 
up,  and  did  not  lay  it  aside  even  when  she  married.  Her 
memorandums  were  not  looked  upon  by  her  as  absolute 
secrets,  she  had  no  occasion  for  such  mystei’y  ; and  she  fre- 
quently read  passages  from  it  for  the  amusement  of  her 
friends  and  of  her  husband.  But  the  book  in  its  entirety 
was  intrusted  to  nobody.  The  account  of  her  husband’s 
attachment  had  been  entered  in  her  diary  witli  tlie  same 
minuteness  Avith  whicli  slie  had  formerly  note^  down  the 
ordinai-y  occurrences  of  the  day ; and  the  entire  history  of 
her  own  affectionate  feelings  had  been  described  from  their 
first  opening  hour  until  they  had  ripened  into  a passion,  and 
at  length  become  a rooted  habit.  Upon  one  occasion  this 
diary  accidentally  fell  in  her  husband’s  way.  and  the  perusal 
afforded  him  a strange  entertainment.  He  had  undesiguedly 
approached  the  writing-desk  upon  which  the  book  lay,  and, 
without  suspicion  or  intention,  had  read  through  an  entire 
page  which  was  open  before  him.  He  took  the  opportunity 
of  referring  to  a few  previous  and  subsequent  passages,  and 
then  retired  with  the  comfortable  assurance  tliat  it  was  high 
time  to  discontinue  the  disagreeable  amusement.” 

Henrietta.  — But,  according  to  the  wish  of  my  friend,  our 
conversation  should  be  confined  to  good  women  ; and  already 
we  are  turning  to  those  who  can  scarcel}’  be  counted  among 
the  best. 

Seyton.  — ^liy  this  constant  reference  to  bad  and  good  ? 
Should  we  not  be  quite  as  well  contented  with  others  as  with' 
ourselves,  either  as  Ave  haA'e  been  formed  by  nature,  or  im- 
proved by  education  ? 

Armkloro.  — I think  it  would  be  at  once  pleasant  and  use- 
ful to  arrange  and  collect  a series  of  anecdotes  such  as  we 
have  heard  narrated,  and  many  of  which  are  founded  on 
real  occurrences.  Light  and  delicate  traits  which  mark  the 
characters  of  men  are  well  worthy  of  our  attention,  even 
though  they  give  birth  to  no  extraordinary  adA’eutures.  They 
are  useless  to  writers  of  romance,  being  devoid  of  all  exciting 
interest ; and  worthless  to  the  tribe  of  anecdote-collectors, 
for  they  are  for  the  most  part  destitute  of  wit  aud  spirit ; but 
they  would  ahvays  prove  entertaining  to  a reader  who,  in  a 
mood  of  quiet  contemplation,  should  wish  to  study  the  gen- 
eral characteristics  of  mankind. 

Sinclair.  — Well  said.  And,  if  we  had  only  thought  of  so 


THE  GOOD  WOMEN. 


355 


praiseworthy  a work  a little  earlier,  we  might  have  assisted 
our  friend,  the  editor  of  the  “ Ladies’  Calendar,”  by  compos- 
ing a dozen  anecdotes,  if  not  of  model  women,  at  least  of 
well-behaved  personages,  to  balance  his  catalogue  of  naughty 
ladies. 

Amelia.  — I should  be  particularly  pleased  with  a collection 
of  incidents  to  show  how  a woman  forms  the  very  soul  and 
existence  of  a household  ; and  this  because  the  artist  has 
introduced  a sketch  of  a spendthrift  and  improvident  wife, 
to  the  defamation  of  our  sex. 

Seyto'ii. — I can  furnish  Amelia  with  a case  precisely  in 
point. 

Amelia.  — Let  us  hear  it.  But  do  not  imitate  the  usual 
custom  of  men  who  undertake  to  defend  the  ladies : they 
frequently  begin  with  praise,  and  end  with  censure. 

Seyton. — Upon  this  occasion,  however,  I do  not  fear  the 
perversion  of  my  intention,  through  the  influence  of  any  evil 
spirit.  A young  man  once  became  tenant  of  a large  hotel 
which  was  established  in  a good  situation.  Amongst  the 
qualities  which  recommend  a host,  he  possessed  a more  than 
ordinary  share  of  good  temper  ; and,  as  he  had  from  liis  3'outh 
been  a friend  to  the  ale-house,  he  was  peculiarly  fortunate  in 
selecting  a pursuit  in  which  he  found  it  necessary  to  devote  a 
considerable  portion  of  the  day  to  his  home  duties.  He  was 
neither  careful  nor  negligent,  and  his  own  good  temper  exer- 
cised a perceptible  influence  over  the  numerous  guests  who 
assembled  around  him. 

He  had  married  a young  person  who  was  of  a quiet,  pleas- 
ing disposition.  She  paid  punctual  attention  to  her  business, 
was  attached  to  her  household  pursuits,  and  loved  her  hus- 
band ; though  she  often  found  fault  with  him  in  secret  for  his 
carelessness  in  money  matters.  She  had,  as  it  were,  a great 
reverence  for  ready  money : she  thoroughly  comprehended 
its  value,  and  understood  the  advantage  of  securing  a pro- 
vision for  herself.  Devoid  of  all  activity  of  disposition,  she 
had  every  tendency  to  avarice.  But  a small  share  of  avarice 
becomes  a woman,  however  ill  extravagance  may  suit  her. 
Generosity  is  a manly  virtue,  but  parsimony  is  becoming  in  a 
woman.  This  is  the  rule  of  nature,  aud  our  judgments 
must  be  subservient  thereto. 

Margaret  (for  such  was  the  name  of  this  prudent  person- 
age) was  very  much  dissatisfied  with  her  husband’s  careless- 
ness. Upon  occasions  ■ when  large  payments  were  made  to 
him  by  his  customers,  it  was  his  habit  to  leave  the  money 


356 


THE  GOOD  WOMEN. 


lying  for  a considerable  time  upon  the  table,  and  then  to 
collect  it  in  a basket,  from  which  he  afterwards  paid  it  away, 
without  making  it  up  into  packages,  and  without  keeping  any 
account  of  its  application.  His  wdfe  plainly  perceived,  that 
even  without  actual  extravagance,  where  there  was  such  a 
total  want  of  system,  considerable  sums  must  be  wasted. 
She  was  above  all  things  anxious  to  make  her  husband 
change  his  negligent  habits,  and  became  grieved  to  obsen  e 
that  the  small  savings  she  collected  and  so  carefully  retained 
were  as  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  money  that  was 
squandered,  and  determined,  therefore,  to  adopt  a rather 
dangerous  expedient  to  make  her  husband  open  his  eyes. 
She  resolved  to  defraud  him  of  as  much  money  as  ix)ssible, 
and  for  this  purpose  had  recourse  to  an  extraordinary  plan. 
She  had  observed,  that,  when  he  had  once  counted  his  money 
which  he  allowed  to  remain  so  long  upon  the  talde,  he  never 
reckoned  it  over  a second  time  before  putting  it  away : she 
therefore  rubbed  the  bottom  of  a candlestick  with  tallow,  and 
then,  apparently  without  design,  placed  it  near  the  spot 
where  the  ducats  lay  exposed,  a species  of  coin  for  which 
she  entertained  a Mmrm  partiality.  She  thus  gained  posses- 
sion of  a few  pieces,  and  subsequent!}’  of  some  other  coins, 
and  was  soon  sufficiently  well  satisfied  with  her  success.  She 
therefore  repeated  the  operation  frequently,  and  entertained 
no  scruple  about  employing  such  evil  means  to  effect  so 
praiseworth}’  an  object,  and  tranquillized  her  conscience  by 
the  reflection  that  such  a mode  of  abstracting  her  husband’s 
money  could  not  be  termed  robbeiy,  as  her  hands  were  not 
employed  for  the  purpose.  Her  secret  treasure  increased 
gradually,  and  soon  became  very  much  greater  by  the  addi- 
tion of  the  ready  money  she  herself  received  from  the  cus- 
tomers of  the  hotel,  and  of  which  she  invariably  retained 
possession. 

She  had  caivied  on  this  practice  for  a whole  year,  and, 
though  she  carefully  watched  her  husband,  never  had  reason 
to  believe  that  his  suspicions  were  awakened,  until  at  length 
he  began  to  grow  discontented  and  unhappy.  She  induced 
him  to  tell  her  the  cause  of  his  anxiety,  and  learned  that  he 
w’as  grievously  perplexed.  After  the  last  payment  he  had 
made  of  a considerable  sum  of  money,  he  had  laid  aside  his 
rent ; and  not  only  this  had  disappeared,  but  he  was  unable 
to  meet  the  demand  of  his  landlord  from  any  other  channel : 
and  as  he  had  always  been  accustomed  to  keep  his  accounts 
in  his  head,  and  to  write  dowm  nothing,  he  could  not  under- 
stand the  cause  of  the  deficiency. 


THE  GOOD  WOMEN. 


357 


Margaret  reminded  him  of  his  great  carelessness,  censured 
I his  thoughtless  manner  of  receiving  and  paying  away  money, 
and  spoke  of  his  general  imprudence.  Even  his  generous 
disposition  did  not  escape  her  remarks  ; and,  in  truth,  he 
had  no  excuse  to  offer  for  a course  of  conduct,  the  conse- 
; quences  of  which  he  had  so  much  reason  to  regret. 

; But  she  could  not  leave  her  husband  long  in  this  state  of 
grievous  trouble,  more  especially  as  she  felt  a pride  in  being 
j able  to  render  him  happy  once  more.  Accordingly,  to  his 
great  astonishment,  on  his  birthday,  which  she  was  always 
accustomed  to  celebrate  by  presenting  him  with  something 
■'  useful,  she  entered  his  private  apartment  with  a basket  filled 
with  rouleaux  of  money.  The  different  descriptions  of  coin 
. were  packed  together  separately,  and  the  contents  carefully 
, indorsed  in  a handwriting  by  no  means  of  the  best.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  describe  his  astonishment  at  finding  before  him 
the  precise  sums  he  had  missed,  or  at  his  wife’s  assurance 
; that  they  belonged  to  him.  She  thereupon  circumstantially 
described  the  time  and  the  manner  of  her  abstracting  them, 
confessed  the  amount  which  she  had  taken,  and  told  also  how 
much  she  had  saved  by  her  own  careful  attention.  His 
i despair  was  now  changed  into  joy;  and  the  result  was,  that 
^ he  abandoned  to  his  wife  all  the  duty  of  receiving  and  pay- 
■ ing  away  money  for  the  future.  His  business  was  carried 
on  even  more  prosperously  than  before  ; although,  from  the 
day  of  which  we  have  spoken,  not  a farthing  ever  passed 
through  his  hands.  His  wife  discharged  the  duty  of  banker 
with  extraordinary  credit  to  herself  ; no  false  money  was 
ever  taken  ; and  the  establishment  of  her  complete  authority 
' in  the  house  was  the  natural  and  just  consequence  of  her 
activity  and  care  ; and,  after  the  lapse  of  ten  years,  she  and 
her  husband  were  in  a condition  to  purchase  the  hotel  for 
themselves. 

j Sinclair. — And  so  all  this  truth,  love,  and  fidelity  ended 
in  the  wife  becoming  the  veritable  mistress.  I should  like 
to  know  how  far  the  opinion  is  just  that  women  have  a ten- 
dency to  acquire  authority. 

Amelia.  — There  it  is  again.  Censure,  you  observe,  is 
sure  to  follow  in  the  wake  of  praise. 

Armidoro.  — Favor  us  with  your  sentiments  on  this  sub- 
' ject,  good  Eulalia.  I think  I have  observed  in  your  writings 
no  disposition  to  defend  your  sex  against  this  imputation. 

Eulalia.  — In  as  far  as  it  is  an  imputation,  I should  wish 
. it  were  removed  by  the  conduct  of  our  sex.  But,  where  we 


358 


THE  GOOD  WOMEN. 


have  a right  to  authority,  we  cau  need  no  excuse.  We  like 
authority,  because  we  are  human.  For  what  else  is  authority, 
in  the  sense  in  which  we  use  it,  than  a desire  for  independ- 
ence, and  the  enjoyment  of  existence  as  much  as  possible? 
This  is  a privilege  all  men  seek  with  determination ; but  our 
ambition  appears,  perhaps,  more  objectionable,  because 
nature,  usage,  aud  social  regulations  place  restraints  upon 
our  sex,  whilst  they  enlarge  the  authorit}'  of  men.  What 
men  possess  naturally,  we  have  to  acquire  ; aud  property  ob- 
tained by  a laborious  struggle  will  always  be  more  obstinately 
held  than  that  which  is  inherited. 

Seyton.  — But  women,  as  I think,  have  no  reason  to  com-  |1 
plain  on  that  score.  As  the  world  goes,  they  inherit  as  ^ 

much  as  men,  if  not  more  ; and  in  my  opinion  it  is  a much  1 

more  dillieult  task  to  become  a perfect  man  than  a perfect 
woman.  The  phrase,  “ He  shall  be  thy  master,”  is  a formula 
characteristic  of  a barbarous  age  long  since  passed  away. 
Men  cannot  claim  a right  to  become  educated  aud  refined, 
without  conceding  the  same  privilege  to  women.  As  long 
as  the  process  continues,  the  balance  is  even  between  them  ; 
but,  as  -womeu  are  more  capable  of  improvement  than  men, 
experience  shows  that  the  scale  soon  uirns  in  their  favor. 

Armidoro. — There  is  no  doubt,  that,  in  all  civilized  nations, 
women  in  general  are  superior  to  men  ; for,  where  the  two 
sexes  exert  a mutual  influence  on  each  other,  a man  caunot 
but  become  more  womanly,  and  that  is  a disadvantage  : but, 
when  a woman  takes  after  a man,  she  is  a gainer ; for.  if  she 
can  improve  her  own  peculiar  qualities  bj’  the  addition  of 
masculine  energy,  she  becomes  an  almost  perfect  beiug. 

Seyton.  — I have  never  considered  the  subject  so  deeply. 

But  I think  it  is  generally  admitted  that  womeu  do  rule,  aud 
must  continue  to  do  so ; and  therefore,  whenever  1 become 
acquainted  with  a young  lady,  I always  inquire  upon  what 
subjects  she  exercises  her  authorit}’ ; since  it  must  be  exer- 
cised somewhere. 

Amelia.  — And  thus  you  establish  the  point  with  which  you 
started  ? 

Seyton.  — And  why  not?  Is  not  my  reasoning  as  good  as 
that  of  philosophers  in  general,  who  are  convinced  by  their 
experience?  Active  women,  who  are  given  to  habits  of  ac- 
quisition aud  saving,  are  invariably  misti'esses  at  home ; 
pretty  women,  at  once  graceful  and  superficial,  rule  in  large 
societies  ; whilst  those  wlio  possess  more  sound  accomplish- 
ments exert  their  influence  in  smaller  circles. 


THE  GOOD  ^^'OM£N■. 


359 


Amelia.  — And  thus  we  are  divided  into  three  classes. 

Sinclair. — All  honorable,  in  my  opinion;  and  yet  those 
three  classes  do  not  include  the  whole  sex.  There  is  still  a 
fourth,  to  which  perhaps  we  had  better  not  allude,  that  we 
may  escape  the  charge  of  converting  our  praise  into  cen- 
sure. 

Henrietta.  — Then,  we  must  guess  the  fourth  class.  Let 
us  see. 

Sinclair. — Well,  then,  the  first  three, classes  were  those 
I whose  activity  was  displayed  at  home,  in  large  societies,  or 
in  smaller  circles. 

; Henrietta.  — What  other  sphere  can  there  be  where  we  can 
exercise  our  activity? 

Sinclair.  — There  may  be  many.  But  1 am  thinking  of 
; the  reverse  of  activity. 

I Henrietta.  — Indolence  ! How  could  an  indolent  woman 
rule  ? 

Sinclair. — Why  not? 

' Henrietta.  — In  what  manner? 

Sinclair.  — By  opposition.  Whoever  adopts  such  a course, 
j either  from  character  or  principle,  acquires  more  authority 
than  one  would  readily  think. 

Amelia.  — I fear  we  are  about  to  fall  into  the  tone  of 
1 censure  so  general  to  men. 

Henrietta.  — Do  not  interrupt  him,  Amelia.  Nothing  can 
be  more  harmless  than  these  mere  opinions  ; and  we  are  the 
' gainers,  by  learning  what  other  persons  think  of  us.  Now, 
then,  for  the  fourth  class  : what  about  it? 

Sinclair.  — I think  I may  speak  unreservedly.  The  class 
' I allude  to  does  not  exist  in  our  country,  and  does  not  exist 
in  France  ; because  the  fair  sex,  both  among  us  and  our  gal- 
lant neighbors,  enjoys  a proper  degree  of  freedom.  But 
in  countries  where  women  are  under  restraint,  and  debarred 
from  sharing  in  public  amusements,  the  class  I speak  of  is 
numerous.  lu  a neighboring  country,  there  is  a peculiar 
name  by  which  ladies  of  this  class  are  invariably  designated. 

Henrietta.  — You  must  tell  us  the  name:  we  can  never 
guess  names. 

Sinclair.  — Well,  I must  tell  you,  they  are  called  roguish. 

Henrietta. — A strange  appellation, 
j Sinclair.  — Some  time  ago  you  took  great  interest  in  read- 
ing the  speculations  of  Lavater  upon  physiognomy ; do  you 
remember  nothing  about  roguish  counteuances  in  his  book? 

I Henrietta..  — It  is  possible,  but  it  made  no  impression  upon 


360 


THE  GOOD  WOMEX. 


me.  I may,  perhaps,  have  construed  the  word  in  its  ordinary 
sense,  and  read  on  without  noticing  it. 

Sinclair.  — It  is  true  that  the  word  “roguish,”  in  its 
ordinary  sense,  is  usually  applied  to  a person,  who,  with 
malicious  levity,  turns  another  into  ridicule  ; but,  in  its  pres- 
ent sense,  it  is  meant  to  describe  a young  lady,  who,  by  her 
indifference,  coldness,  and  reserve  — qualities  which  attach 
to  her  as  a disease  — destroys  the  happiness  of  one  upon 
whom  she  is  dependent.  We  meet  with  examples  of  this  i 
everywhere,  sometimes  even  iu  our  own  circle.  For  instance, 
when  I have  praised  a lady  for  her  beauty,  I have  heard  it 
said  iu  reply,  “ Yes  ; but  she  is  a bit  of  a rogue.”  I even 
remember  a physician  saying  to  a lady,  who  complained  of 
the  anxiety  she  suffered  about  her  maid-servant,  “ She  is  a 
rogue,  and  will  give  a deal  of  trouble.” 

Amelia  rose  from  her  seat,  and  left  the  apartment. 

Henrietta.  — That  seems  rather  sti’ange. 

Sinclair.  — I thought  so  too  : and  I therefore  took  a note 
of  the  symptoms,  which  seemed  to  mark  a disease  half  moral 
and  half  physical,  and  framed  an  essay  which  I entitled, 

“ Chapter  on  Rogues  ; ” and,  as  I meant  it  to  form  a portion 
of  a work  on  general  anthropological  observations,  I have 
kept  it  by  me  hitherto. 

Henrietta.  — But  you  must  let  us  see  it ; and.  if  you  know 
any  interesting  anecdotes  to  elucidate  your  meaning  of  the 
word  “ rogue,”  they  must  find  a place  in  our  intended  col- 
lection of  novels. 

Sinclair.  — This  may  be  all  very  well,  but  I find  I have 
failed  in  the  object  which  brought  me  hither.  I was  anxious 
to  find  some  one  in  this  gifted  assembly  to  undertake  an  ex- 
planation of  these  engravings,  to  recommend  some  talented 
writer  for  the  purpose  ; in  place  of  which,  the  engravings  are 
abused  and  pronounced  worthless,  and  I must  take  my  leave 
without  having  attained  my  purpose.  But,  if  I had  only 
made  notes  of  our  conversation  and  anecdotes  this  evening, 

1 should  almost  possess  an  equivalent. 

Armidoro.  — (Coming  from  the  cabinet,  to  which  he  had 
frequently  retired.)  Your  wish  is  accomplished.  I know  the 
motive  of  our  friend,  the  editor  of  the  work.  I have  taken 
down  the  heads  of  our  conversation  upon  this  paper.  I will 
arrange  the  draught ; and,  if  Eulalia  will  kindly  promise  to 
impart  to  the  whole  that  spirit  of  charming  animation  which 
she  possesses,  the  graceful  tone  of  the  work,  and  perhaps 
also  its  contents,  will  in  some  measure  expiate  the  offence  of 
the  artist  for  his  uugallant  attack. 


THE  GOOD  WOMEN. 


361 


Henrietta.  — I cannot  blame  your  officious  friendship, 
Armidoro : but  I wish  you  had  not  taken  notes  of  our  con- 
versation ; it  is  setting  a bad  example.  Our  intercourse  has 
been  quite  free  and  unrestrained  ; and  nothing  can  be  worse 
than  that  our  unguarded  conversation  should  be  overheard 
and  written  down,  perhaps  even  printed  for  the  amusement 
of  the  public. 

But  Henrietta’s  scruples  were  silenced  by  a promise  that 
nothing  should  meet  the  public  eye  except  the  little  anecdotes 
which  had  been  related. 

Eulalia,  however,  could  not  be  persuaded  to  edit  the  notes 
of  the  short-hand  writer.  She  had  no  wish  to  withdraw  her 
attention  from  the  fairy-tale  with  which  she  was  then  occu- 
pied. The  notes  remained  in  possession  of  the  gentlemen 
of  the  party,  who,  with  the  aid  of  their  own  memories, 
generously  afforded  their  assistance,  that  they  might  thereby 
contribute  to  the  general  edification  of  all  “ good  women.” 


Stan. 


A TALE. 


The  thick  fog  of  an  early  autumnal  morning  obscured  the 
extensive  courts  which  surrounded  the  prince’s  castle  ; but 
through  the  mists,  which  gradually  dispersed,  a stranger 
might  observe  a Cavalcade  of  huntsmen,  consisting  of  horse 
and  foot,  already  engaged  in  their  early  preparations  for  the 
field.  The  active  employments  of  the  domestics  were  already 
discernible.  These  latter  were  engaged  in  lengthening  and 
shortening  stirrup-leathers,  preparing  the  rifles  and  ammuni- 
tion, and  arranging  the  game-bags  ; whilst  the  dogs,  impatient 
of  restraint,  threatened  to  break  away  from  the  slips  by  which 
they  were  held.  Then  fhe  horses  became  restive,  from  their 
own  high  mettle,  or  excited  by  the  spur  of  the  rider,  who 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  make  a vain  display  of  his 
prowess,  even  in  the  obscurity  by  which  he  was  surrounded. 
The  cavalcade,  awaited  4ho  3.iTivaJ-a£_  tlie  pi-inup,  wlio.  .wa>^ 
delayed  too  long  while  taking  leave  of  his  .young-wife. 

Lately  married,  they  thoroughly  appreciated  the  happiness 
of  their  own  congenial  dispositions  : both  were  lively  and 
animated,  and  each  shared  with  delight  the  pleasures  and 
pursuits  of  the  other.  The  prince’s  father  had  lived  long 
enough  to  enjoy  that  period  of  life  when  one  learns  that  all 
the  members  of  a state  should  spend  their  time  in  diligent 
, employments,  and  that  every  one  should  engage  in  some 
energetic  occupation  corresponding  with  his  taste,  and  should 
by  this  means  first  acquire,  and  then  enjoy,  the  fruits  of  his 
labor. 

; How  far  these  maxims  had  proved  successful  might  have 
' been  observed  on  this  very  day  ; for  it  was  the  anniversary  of 
the  great  market  in  the  town,  a festival  which  might  indeed 
be  considei’ed  a species  of  fair.  The  prince  had,  on  the 
1 363 


364 


A TALE. 


previous  clay,  conducted  his  wife  on  horseback  through  the 
busy  scene,  aud  had  caused  her  to  observe  what  a convenient 
exchange  was  carried  on  between  the  productions  of  the 
laountainous  districts  aud  those  of  the  plain ; and  he  took 
occasion  then  and  there  to  direct  her  attention  to  the  indus- 
trious character  of  his  subjects. 

But  whilst  the  prince  was  entertaining  himself  and  his 
courtiers  almost  exclusively  with  subjects  of  this  nature,  aud 
was  perpetually  employed  with  his  finance  minister,  his  chief 
huntsman  did  not  lose  sight  of  his  duty  : aud,  upon  his  repre- 
sentation, it  was  impossible,  during  these  favorable  autumnal 
days,  any  longer  to  postpone  the  amusement  of  the  chase ; 
as  the  promised  meeting  had  already  been  several  times 
deferred,  not  only  to  his  own  mortification,  but  to  that  of 
many  strangers  who  had  arrived  to  take  part  in  the  sport. 

The  princess  remained,  reluctantly,,  at  home.  It  had  been 
determined  to  hunt  over  the  distant  mountains,  aud  to  disturb 
the  peaceful  inhabitants  of  the  forests  in  those  districts  by 
an  unexpected  declaration  of  hostilities. 

Upon  taking  his  departure,  the  prince  recommended  his 
wife  to  s^.k  .amusement  in  equestrian  .exercise,  under  the 
conduct  of  her  uucle  Frederick.  “Aud  I commend  you, 
moreover,”  he  sard,  “ to  the  care  of  our  trusty  Honorio,  who 
will  act  as  your  esquire,  aud  pay  j"ou  every  attention  ; ” and 
saying  this  as~he  descended  the  stairs,  aud  gave  the  needful 
instructions  to  a comely  youth,  the  priuce  quickl}’  disappeared 
amid  the  crowd  of  assembled  guests  aud  followers. 

The  princess,  who  had  continued  waving  her  handkerchief 
to  her  husband  as  long  as  he  remained  in  the  court-yard,  now 
retired  to  an  apartment  at  the  back  of  the  castle,  which 
showed  an  extensive  prospect  over  the  nrouutaiu ; as  the 
castle  itself  was  situated  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  from  which 
a view  at  once  distant  aud  varied  opened  in  all  directions. 
She  found  the  telescope  in  the  spot  where  it  had  been  left 
on  the  previous  evening,  when  theylrad  amused  therrrselves 
in  surve3ung  the  landscape,  aud  the  extent  of  rrrouutaiu  and 
forest  amid  which  the  lofty  ruins  of  their  ancestral  castle 
were  situated.  It  was  a noble  relic  of  ancient  times,  aud 
shone  out  gloriousU^  in  the  evening  illumination.  A grand 
but  somewhat  inadequate  idea  of  its  importance  was  conveved 
by  the  large  masses  of  light  aud  shadow  which  now  fell  on  it. 
Moreover,  by  the  aid  of  the -telescope,  the  autumnal  foliage 
was  seen  to  lend  an  indescribable  charm  to  the  prospect, 
as  it  waved  upon  trees  which  had  grown  up  amid  the  ruins. 


A TALE. 


365 


undisturbed,  for  a great  many  years.  But  tlm  princess  soon 
turned  the  telescope  in  the  direction  of  a dry  and  sandy 
plain  beneath  her,  across  which  the  hunting  cavalcade  was 
expected  to  bend  its  course.  She  patiently  surveyed  the 
spot,  and  was  at  length  rewarded,  as  the  clear  magnif3’ing 
power  of  the  instrument  enabled  her  delighted  eyes  to  recog- 
nize the  prince  and  his  chief  equerry.  Upon  this  she  once 
more  waved  her  handkerchief  as  she  observed,  or,  rather, 
j fancied  she  observed,  a momentary  panse  in  the  advance  of 
I tb&  procession. 

Her  uncle  Frederick  was  now  announced ; and  he  entered 
j the  apartment,  accompanied  by  an  artist,  bearing  a large 
i portfolio  under  his  arm. 

! “ Dear  cousin,”  observed  the  vigorous  old  man,  address- 

j ing  her,  “ w£  Jiavn  brought  some  sketches  of  the  ancestral 
castle  for  j^our  inspection,  to  show  how  the  old  walls  and 
battlements  were  calculated  to  afford  defence  and  protection 
i during  stormy  seasons  in  years  long  passed ; though  they 
’ have  tottered  in  some  places,  and  in  others  have  covered  the 
plain  with  their  ruins.  Our  efforts  have  been  unceasing  to 
render  the  place  accessible,  since  few  spots  offer  more 
' beauty  or  sublimity  to  the  eye  of  the  astonished  traveller.” 
The  prince  continued,  as  he  opened  the  portfolio  contain- 
( ing  the  different  views,  “ Here,  as  you  ascend  the  hollow 
way,  through  the  outer  fortifications,  you  meet  the  principal 
!j  tower ; and  a rock  forbids  all  farther  progress.  It  is  the 
I firmest  of  the  mountain-range.  A^astle  has  been  erected 
upon  it,  so  constructed  that  it  is  difficult  to  say  where  the 
3 work  of  nature  ceases  and  that  of  art  begins.  At  a little 

j distance  side-walls  and  buttresses  have  been  raised,  the 

whole  forming  a sort  of  terrace.  The  height  is  surrounded 
j by  a wood.  For  upwards  of  a century  and  a half  no  sound 
] of  an  axe  has  been  heard  within  these  precincts,  and  giant 
, trunks  of  trees  appear  on  all  sides.  Close  to  the  very  walls 
I spring  the  glossy  maple,  the  rough  oak,  and  the  tall  pine. 

5 They  oppose  our  progress  with  their  boughs  and  roots,  and 

compel  us  to  make  a circuit  to  secure  our  advance.  See 
I how  admirably  our  artist  has  sketched  all  this  upon  paper ; 

how  aceuratelj^die  has  represented  the  trees  as  they  become 
I intwined  amid  th^masonry  of  the  castle,  and  thrust  their 
j boughs  througlT^he  opening  in  the  walls.  It  is  a solitude 
I which  possesses  the  indescribable  charm  of  displajung  the 
j traces  of  human  power,  long  since  passed  away,  contending 
I with  perpetual  and  still  reviving  nature.” 

i 

t 

1 

I 


366 


A TALE. 


Opening  a second  picture,  lie  continued  his  discourse. 
“What  say  you  to  this  representation  of  the  castle-court, 
which  has  been  rendered  impassable  for  countless  j^ears  by 
the  fall’ug  of  the  principal  tower?  We  endeavored  ^to 
approach  it  from  the  side,  and,  in  order  to  form  a conven- 
ient private  road,  were  compelled  to  blow  up  the  old  walls 
and  vaults  with  gunpowder.  But  there  was  no  necessity  for 
similar  operations  within  the  castle-walls.  Here  is  a flat, 
rocky  surface  which  has  been  levelled  by  the  hand  of  nature, 
through  wdiich,  hoM'ever,  mighty  trees  have  here  and  there 
been  able  to  strike  their  roots.  They  have  thriven  well,  and 
thrust  their  branches  into  the  very  galleries  where  the  knights 
of  old  were  wont  to  exercise,  and  have  forced  their  way  , 
through  doors  and  windows  into  vaulted  halls,  from  which 
they  are  not  likely  now  to  be  expelled,  and  whence  we,  at 
least,  shall  not  remove  them.  They  have  become  lords  of 
the  territory,  and  may  remain  so.  Concealed  beneath  heaps 
of  dried  leaves,  we  found  a perfectly  level  floor,  which  prob- 
ably cannot  be  equalled  in  the  world. 

“ In  ascending  the  steps  which  lead  to  the  chief  tower,  it 
is  remarkable  to  observe,  in  addition  to  all  we  have  men- 
tioned above,  how  a maple-tree  has  taken  root  on  high,  and 
grown  to  a great  size  ; so  that,  in  ascending  to  the  highest 
turret  to  enjoy  the  prospect,  it  is  difficult  to  pass.  And  here 
you  may  refresh  yourself  beneath  the  shade  ; for,  even  at 
this  elevation,  the  tree  of  which  we  speak  throws  its  shadows 
over  all  around. 

“ We  feel  much  indebted  to  the  talented  aitist,  who,  in  the 
course  of  several  views,  has  brought  thus  the  whole  scenery 
as  completely  before  us  as  if  we  had  actually  witnessed  tlie 
original  scene.  H[e  selected  the  most  beautiful  hours  of  the 
dayi  and  the  most  favorable  season  of  the  year,  for  his  task, 
to  which  he  devoted  many  weeks.  A small  dwelling  was 
erected  for  him  and  his  assistant  in  the  corner  of  the  castle  : 
you  can  scarcely  imagine  wliat  a splendid  view  of  the  coun- 
try, court,  and  ruins  he  there  enjoyed.  We  intend  these 
pictures  to  adorn  our  country-house ; and  every  one  who 
enjoys  a view  of  our  regular  parterres,  of  our  bowers  and 
shady  walks,  will  doubtless  feel  anxious  to  feed  his  imagina- 
tion and  his  eyes  with  an  actual  inspection  of  these  scenes, 
and  so  enjoy  at  once  the  old  and  new.  the  rigid  and  tlie 
unyielding,  the  indestructible  and  the  young,  the  pliant  and 
the  irresistible. 

Honorio  now  entered,  and  announced  the  arrival  of  tlie  . 


A TALE. 


367 


horses.  The  princess,  thereupon,  addressing  her  uncle, 
expressed  a wish  to  ride  up  to  the  ruins,  and  examine  per- 
sonally the  subjects  he  had  so  graphically  described.  “ Ever 
since  my  arrival  here,”  she  said,  “this  excursion  has  been 
intended  ; and  I shall  be  delighted  to  accomplish  what  has 
i been  declared  almost  impracticable,  and  what  the  pictures 
show  to  be  so  difficult.  ” 

“ Not  yet,  my  dear,”  replied  the  prince  : “ these  pictures 
only  portray  what  the  place  will  become,  but  many  difficul- 
ties impede  a commencement  of  the  work.” 

“ But . let  us  ride  a little  towards  the  mountain,”  she 
rejoined,  “if  only  to  the  beginning  of  the  ascent:  I have  a 
great  desire  to-day  to  enjoy  an  extensive  prospect.” 

“ Your  desire  shall  be  gratified,”  answered  the  prince. 
“But  we  will  first  direct  our  course  through  the  town,” 
continued  the  lady,  “ and  across  the  market-place,  where  a 
countless  number  of  booths  wear  the  appearance  of  a small 
town  or  of  an  encampment.  It  seems  as  if  all  the  wants 
and  occupations  of  every  family  in  the  country  were  brought 
j together  and  supplied  in  this  one  spot ; for  the  attentive 
j observer  may  here  behold  whatever  man  can  produce  or 
j require.  You  would  suppose  that  money  was  wholly  unne- 
cessary, and  that  business  of  every  kind  could  be  carried  on 
by  means  of  barter ; and  such,  in  fact,  is  the  case.  Since 
the  prince  directed  my  attention  to  this  view  yesterday,  I 
have*  felt  pleasure  in  observing  the  manner  in  which  the 
inhabitants  of  the  mountain  and  of  the  valley  mutually 
comprehend  each  other,  and  how  both  so  plainl}^  speak  their 
wants  and  their  wishes  in  this  place.  The  mountaineer,  for 
„ example,  has  cut  the  timber  of  his  forests  into  a thousand 
forms,  and  applied  his  iron  to  multifarious  uses  ; while  the 
inhabitant  of  the  valley  meets  him  with  his  various  wares 
and  merchandise,  the  very  materials  and  object  of  which  it 
is  difficult  to  know  or  conjecture.” 

“I  am  aware,”  observed  the  prince,  “that  my  nephew 

i devotes  his  attention  wholl}^  to  these  subjects,  for  at  this 
particular  season  of  the  year  he  receives  more  than  he 
expends  ; and  this,  after  all,  is  the  object  and  end  of  every 
I national  financier,  and,  indeed,  of  the  pettiest  household 
economist.  But  excuse  me,  my  dear,  I never  ride  with  any 
pleasure  through  the  market  or  the  fair ; obstacles  impede 
one  at  every  step : and  my  imagination  continually  recurs  to 

(that  dreadful-  calamity  which  happened  before  my  own  eyes, 
when  I witnessed  the  conflagration  of  as  large  a collection  of 
merchandise  as  is  accumulated  here.  I had  scarcely  ” — 


368 


A TALE. 


“ Let  us  not  lose  our  time,”  said  the  princess,  intemipt- 
ing  him,  as  her  worthy  uncle  had  more  than  once  tortured 
her  with  a literal  account  of  the  very  same  misfortune.  It 
had  happened  when  he  was  upon  a journey,  and  had  retired, 
fatigued,  to  bed,  in  the  best  hotel  of  the  town,  which  was 
situated  in  the  market-place.  It  was  the  season  of  the  fair, 
and  in  the  dead  of  the  night  he  was  awoke  by  screams  and 
by  the  columns  of  fire  which  approached  the  hotel. 

The  princess  hastened  to  mount  her  favorite  palfrey,  and 
led  the  way  for  her  unw'illiug  companion,  when  she  rode 
through  the  front  gate  down  the  hUl,  in  place  of  passing 
through  the  back  gate  up  the  mountain.  But  who  could 
have  felt  unwilling  to  ride  at  her  side,  or  to  follow  wherever 
she  led?  And  even  Honorio  had  gladly  abandoned  the 
pleasure  of  his  favorite  amusement,  the  chase,  in  order  to  | 
officiate  as  her  devoted  attendant. 

As  we  have  before  obseiwed,  they  could  only  ride  thi-ough 
the  market  step  by  step ; but  the  amusing  observations  of 
the  princess  rendered  every  pause  delightful.  “I  must 
repeat  my  lesson  of  yesterday,”  she  remarked,  “for  neces- 
sity will  try  our  patience.”  And,  in  truth,  the  crowd  pressed 
upon  them  in  such  a manner  that  they  could  only  continue 
their  progress  at  a very  slow  pace.  The  people  testified 
great  joy  at  beholding  the  young  lij-incess,  and  the  complete 
satisfaction  of  many  a smiling  face  evinced  the  pleasure  of 
the  people  at  finding  that  the  first  lady  in  the  land  \5;as  at 
once  the  most  lovely  and  the  most  gracious. 

Promiscuously  mingled  together  were  nide  mountaineers 
who  inhabited  quiet  cottages  amongst  bleak  rocks  and  tow- 
ering pine-trees,  lowlanders  from  the  plains  and  meadows, 
and  manufacturers  from  the  neighboring  small  towns.  After 
quietly  surveying  the  motley  crowd,  the  princess  remarked 
to  her  companion,  that  all  the  people  she  saw  seemed  to 
take  delight  in  using  more  stuff  for  their  garments  than  was 
necessary,  whether  it  consisted  of  cloth,  linen,  ribbon,  or 
trimming.  It  seemed  as  if  the  wearers,  both  men  and 
women,  thought  they  would  be  better  if  they  looked  puffed 
out  as  much  as  possible. 

“We  must  leave  that  matter  to  themselves,”  answered 
the  uncle.  “Everyman  must  dispose  of  his  superfluity  as 
he  pleases  : well  for  those  who  spend  it  in  mere  ornament.” 

The  princess  nodded  her  assent. 

They  had  now  arrived  at  a wide,  open  square  which  led  to 
one  of  the  suburbs : they  there  perceived  a number  of  small 


A TALE. 


369 


booths  and  stalls,  and  also  a large  wooden  building  whenee 
a most  discordant  bowling  issued.  It  was  the  feeding-hour 
of  the  wild  animals  which  were  there  enclosed  for  exhibition. 
The  lion  roared  with  that  fearful  voice  with  which  he  was 
accustomed  to  terrify  both  woods  and  wastes.  The  horses 
trembled,  and  no  one  could  avoid  observing  how  the  mon- 
arch of  the  desert  made  himself  terrible  in  the  tranquil  circles 
of  civilized  life.  Approaching  nearer,  they  remarked  the 
tawdry,  colossal  pictures  on  which  the  beasts  were  painted  in 
the  brightest  colors,  intended  to  afford  irresistible  temptation 
to  the  busy  citizen.  The  grim  and  fearful  tiger  was  in  the 
act  of  springing  upon  a nega'O- to  tear  him  to  pieces.  The 
lion  stood  in  solemn  majesty,  as  if  lie  saw  no  worthy  prey 
before  him.  Other  w'onderful  creatures  in  the  same  group 
I presented  inferior  attractions. 

“Upon  our  return,”  said  the  princess,  “we  will  alight, 
and  take  a nearer  inspection  of  these  rare  creatures.” 

“ Is  it  not  extraordinary,”  replied  the  prince,  “ that  man 
: takes  pleasure  in  fearful  excitements  ? The  tiger,  for  in- 
stance, is  lying  quietly  enough  within  his  cage  ; and  yet  here 
i the  brute  must  be  painted  in  the  act  of  springing  fiercely  on 
i a negro,  in  order  that  the  public  may  believe  that  the  same 
scene  is  to  be  witnessed  within.  Do  not  murder  and  death, 
fire  and  desolation,  sufficiently  abound,  but  that  every  moun- 
tebank must  repeat  such  horrors?  The  worthy  people  like 
to  be  alarmed,  that  they  may  afterwards  eujoj"  the  delight- 
ful sensation  of  freedom  and  security.” 

But  whatever  feelings  of  terror  such  frightful  representa- 
tions might  have  inspired,  they  disappeared  when  they 
reached  the  gate  and  surveyed  the  cheerful  prospects  arouud. 
The  road  led  down  to  a river,  a narrow  brook  in  truth,  and 
only  calculated  to  bear  light  skiffs,  but  destined  afterwards, 
when  swelled  into  a wider  stream,  to  take  another  name, 
and  to  water  distant  lands.  They  then  bent  their  course 
farther  through  carefully  cultivated  fruit  and  pleasure  gar- 
dens, in  an  orderly  and  populous  neighborhood,  until  first 
a copse  and  then  a wood  received  them  as  guests,  and  de- 
lighted their  eyes  with  a limited  but  charming  landscape. 
A green  valley  leading  to  the  heights  above,  which  had  been 
lately  mowed  for'  the  second  time,  and  wore  the  appearance 
of  velvet,  having  been  copiously  watered  by  a rich  stream, 
now  received  them  with  a friendly  welcome.  They  then 
bent  their  course  to  a higher  and  more  open  spot,  which, 
upon  issuing  from  the  wood,  they  reached  after  a short 


370 


A TALE. 


ascent,  and  whence  they  obtained  a distant  \dew  of  the  old  'J 
castle,  the  object  of  their  pilgrimage,  which  shone  above  9 
the  groups  of  trees,  and  assumed  the  appearance  of  a well-  t 
wooded  rock.  Behind  them  (for  no  one  ever  attained  this  f 
height  without  turning  to  look  round)  they  saw,  through  | 
occasional  openings  in  the  lofty  trees,  the  prince’s  castle  on  • 
the  left,  illuminated  by  the  morning  sun  ; the  higher  portion  ; 
of  the  town,  obscured  by  a light,  cloudy  mist ; and,  on  the  J 
right  hand,  the  lower  part,  through  which  the  river  flowed 
in  many  windings,  with  its  meadows  and  its  mills;  whilst 
straight  before  them  the  country  extended  in  a wide,  pro- 
ductive plain. 

After  they  had  satisfied  their  eyes  with  the  landscape,  or 
rather,  as  is  often  the  case  in  surveying  an  extensive  view  ; 
from  an  eminence,  when  they  had  become  desmous  of  a wider 
and  less  circumscribed  prospect,  they  rode  slowly  along  a 
broad  and  stony  plain,  where  they  saw  the  mighty  ruin 
standing  with  its  coronet  of  green,  whilst  its  base  was  clad 
with  trees  of  lesser  height ; and  proceeding  onwards  they 
encountered  the  steepest  and  most  impassable  side  of  the 
ascent.  It  was  defended  by  enoiinous  rocks,  which  had 
endured  for  ages  : proof  against  the  ravages  of  time,  they 
were  fast  rooted  in  the  earth,  and  towered  aloft.  One  part 
of  the  castle  had  fallen,  and  lay  in  huge  fragmeuts*IiTe^i- 
larly  massed,  and  seemed  to  act  as  an  insurmountable  bar- 
rier, the  mere  attempt  to  overcome  which  is  a delight  to 
youth  ; as  supple  limbs  ever  find  it  a pleasure  to  undertake, 
to  combat,  and  to  conquer.  The  princess  seemed  disposed 
to  make  the  attempt ; Houorio  was  at  hand ; her  princely 
uncle  assented,  unwilling  to  acknowledge  his  want  of  agility. 
The  liorses  were  directed  to  wait  for  them  under  the  trees ; 
and  it  was  intended  the}"  should  make  for  a certain  point 
where  a large  rock  had  been  rendered  smooth,  and  from 
which  a prospect  was  beheld,  which,  though  of  the  nature 
of  a bird’s-eye  view,  was  sutficieutly  picturesque. 

It  was  mid-day  : the  sun  had  attained  its  highest  altitude,  , 
and  shed  its  clearest  rays  around  : the  princely  castle,  in  all  j 
its  parts,  battlements,  wings,  cupolas,  and  towers,  presented 
a glorious  appearance.  The  upper  part  of  the  town  was  seen 
in  its  full  extent : the  eye  could  even  penetrate  into  parts  of 
the  lower  town,  and,  with  the  assistance  of  the  telescope, 
distiugmish  the  market-place,  and  even  the  very  booths.  It_  j 
w-as  Ifonorio’s  invariable. .custom  to  sling  this  indispensable  I 
instrument  to  his  side.  They  took  a ■'hew  of  the  river  in  its  ' 


A TALE, 


371 


course  and  its  descent,  and  of  the  sloping  plain,  and  of  the 
luxuriant  country  with  its  gentle  undulations,  and  then  of 
the  numerous  villages,  for  it  had  been  from  time  immemorial 
a subject  of  contention,  how  many  could  be  counted  from 
this  spot. 

Over  the  wide  plain  there  reigned  a calm  stillness,  such  as 
is  accustomed  to  rule  at  mid-day,  — an  hour  wheu,  accord- 
ing to  classical  phraseology,  the  god  Fan  sleeps,  and  all^ 
nature  is  breathless,  that  his  repose  may  be  undisturbed. 

“ It  is  not  the  first  time,”  observed  the  princess,  “that, 
standing  upon  an  eminence  which  presents  a wide-extended 
view,  I have  thought  how  pure  and  peaceful  is  the  look  of 
holy  Nature;  and  the  impression  comes  upon  me,  that  the 
world  beneath  must  be  free  from  strife  and  care  : but  return- 
i ing  to,  the  dwellings  of  man,  be  they  the  cottage  or  the 
j palace,  be  they  roomy  or  circumscribed,  we  find  that  there 
is,  in  truth,  ever  something  to  subdue,  to  struggle  with,  to 
quiet  and  allay.” 

j Honorio,  in  the  mean  time,  had  directed  the  telescope 
i towards  the  town,  and  now  exclaimed,  “ Lpok5_.UiDk,! , the 

They  looked,  and  saw  some  smoke  ; but  the  glare  of  daylight 
I eclipsed  the  flames.  “ The  fire  increases  ! ” they  exclaimed, 

I still  looking  through  the  instrument.  The  princess  saw  the 
t calamity  with  the  naked  eye : from  time  to  time  they  per- 
ceived a red  flame  ascending  amid  the  smoke.  Her  uncle  at 
j length  exclaimed,  ‘ ‘ Let  us  return  : it  is  calamitous  ! I have 
• airways  feared  the  recurrence  of  such  a misfortune.” 

They  descended  ; and,  having  reached  the  horses,  the  prin- 
I cess  thus  addressed  her  old  relative:  “ Eide  forward,  sir, 

5 hastily,  with  your  attendant,  but  leave  Honorio  with  me,  and 
we  will  follow.” 

; Her  uncle  perceived  the  prudence  and  utility  of  this 
advice,  and,  riding  on  as  quickly  as  the  nature  of  the  ground 
I would  allow,  descended  to  the  open  plain.  The  princess 
\ mounted  her  steed,  upon  which  Honorio  addressed  her  thus  : 

1 “I  pray  your  Highness  to  ride  slowly;  the  fire-engines  are 
' in  the  best  order,  both  in  the  town  and  in  the  castle ; there 
I can  surely  be  no  mistake  or  error,  even  in  so  unexpected  an 
emergency.  Here,  however,  the  way  is  dangerous,  and  riding 
j is  insecure,  from  the  small  stones  and  the  smooth  grass  ; and, 
in  addition,  the  fire  will  no  doubt  be  extinguished  before  we 
! reach  the  town.” 

j But  the  princess  indulged  in  no  such  hope : she  saw  the 

i 


372 


A TALE. 


smoke  ascend,  and  thought  she  perceived  a flash  of  lightning 
and  heard  a thunder-clap  ; and  her  mind  was  filled  with  the 
frightful  pictures  of  the  conflagration  her  uncle’s  oft-repeated 
narrative  had  impressed  on  her. 

That  calamity  had  indeed  been  dreadful,  sudden,  and  im- 
pressive enough  to  make  one  apprehensive  for  the  repetition 
of  a like  misfortune.''  At  midnight  a fearful  fire-had  broken 
out  in  the  market-place,  which  was  filled  with  booths  and 
stalls,  before  the  occupants  of  those  temporary  habitations 
had  been  roused  from  their  profound  dreams.  The  prince 
himself,  after  a weary  day’s  journey,  had  retired  to  rest,  but, 
rushing  to  the  window,  perceived  with  dismay  the  flames  which 
raged  around  on  every  side,  and  approached  the  spot  where 
he  stood.  The  houses  of  the  market-place,  crimsoned  with 
the  reflection,  appeared  already  to  burn,  and  threatened  every 
instant  to  burst  out  into  a general  conflagration.  The  fierce  j 
element  raged  irresistibly  ; the  beams  and  rafters  crackled ; - j 
whilst  countless  pieces  of  consumed  linen  flew  aloft,  and  the  ! 
burnt  and  shapeless  rags  sported  in  the  air  and  looked  like  j 
foul  demons  revelliuo;  in  their  congenial  element.  "With  loud  ! 
cries  of  distress,  each  individual  endeavored  to  rescue  what  i 
he  could  from  the  flames.  Servants  and  assistants  vied  with  | 
their  masters  in  their  efforts  to  save  the  huge  liales  of  goods  i 
already  half  consumed,  to  tear  what  still  remained  uninjured  | 
from  the  burning  stalls,  and  to  pack  it  away  in  chests ; i 
although  they  were  even  then  compelled  to  abandon  their  i 
labors,  and  leave  the  whole  to  fall  a prey  to  the  conflagration.  ' 
How  many  wished  that  the  raging  blaze  would  allow  but  a 
single  moment’s  respite,  and,  pausing  to  consider  the  possi- 
bility of  such  a mercy,  fell  victims  to  their  brief  hesitation. 
Many  buildings  burned  on  one  side,  while  the  other  side  lay  in 
obscure  darkness.  A few  determined,  self-willed  characters 
bent  themselves  obstinately  to  the  task  of  saving  something 
from  the  flames,  and  suffered  for  their  heroism.  The  whole 
scene  of  misery  and  devastation  was  renewed  in  the  mind  of 
the  beautiful  princess  : her  countenance  was  clouded,  which 
had  beamed  so  radiantly  in  the  early  morning ; her  eyes  had 
lost  their  lustre  ; and  even  the  beautiful  woods  and  meadows 
around  now  looked  sad  and  mournful. 

Eiding  onward,  she  entered  the  sweet  valley,  but  felt  un- 
cheered by  the  refreshing  coolness  of  the  place.  She  had. 
however,  not  advanced  far,  before  she  observed  an  unusual 
appearance  in  the  copse  near  the  meadow  where  the  sparkling 
brook  which  flowed  through  the  adjacent  country  took  its 


A TALE. 


373 


rise.  She  at  once  recognized  a tiger  couched  in  the  attitude 
to  spring,  as  she  had  seen  him  represented  in  the  painting. 
The  impression  was  fearful.  “Flee!  gracious  lady,’’  cried 
Honorio,  “ flee  at  once  ! ’’  She  turned  her  horse  to  mount  the 
steep  hill  she  had  just  descended ; but  her  young  attendant 
drew  his  pistol,  and,  approaching  the  monster,  fired  ; unfor- 
tunately he  missed  his  mark,  the  tiger  leaped  aside,  the  horse 
started,  and  the  terrified  beast  pursued  his  course  and  fol- 
lowed the  princess.  The  latter  urged  her  horse  up  the  steep, 
stony  acclivity,  forgetting  for  a moment  that  the  pampered 
animal  she  rode  was  unused  to  such  exertions  ; but,  urged 
by  his  impetuous  rider,  the  spirited  steed  made  a new  effort, 
till  at  length,  stumbling  at  an  inequality  of  the  ground,  after 
1 many  attempts  to  recover  his  footing,  he  fell  exhausted  to 
I the  ground.  The  princess  released  herself  from  the  saddle 
with  great  expertuess  and  presence  of  mind,  and  brought  her 
I horse  again  to  its  feet.  The  tiger  was  in  pursuit  at  a slow 
i pace.  The  uneven  ground  and  sharp  stones  appeared  to  re- 
! tard  his  progress  ; though,  as  Honorio  approached,  his  speed 
and  strength  seemed  to  be  renewed.  They  now  came  nearer 
! to  the  spot  where  the  princess  stood  bj^  her  horse  ; and  Honorio, 
bending  down,  discharged  a second  pistol.  This  time  he  was 
successful,  and  shot  the  monster  through  the  head.  The 
animal  fell,  and,  as  he  lay  stretched  upon  the  ground  at  full 
length,  gave  evidence  of  that  might  and  terror  which  was 
now  reduced  to  a lifeless  form.  Honorio  had  leaped  from  his 
horse,  and  was  now  kneeling  on  the  body  of  the  huge  brute. 
He  had  already  put  an  end  to  his  struggles  with  the  hunting- 
I knife  which  gleamed  within  his  grasp.  He  looked  even  more 
handsome  and  active  than  the  princess  had  ever  seen  him  in 
list  or  tournament.  Thus  had  he  oftentimes  driven  his  bullet 
through  the  head  of  the  Turk  in  the  riding-school,  piercing 
his  forehead  under  the  turban,  and,  carried  onward  by  his 
rapid  courser,  had  oftentimes  struck  the  Moor’s  head  to  the 
ground  with  his  shining  sabre.  In  all  such  knightly  feats 
I he  was  dexterous  and  successful,  and  here  he  had  found  an 
opportunity  for  putting  liis  skill  to  the  test. 

“Despatch  him  quickly,’’  said  the  princess  faintly:  “I 
fear  he  may  injure  you  with  his  claws.’’ 

; “There  is  no  danger,’’  answered  the  youth;  “ he  is  dead 
I enough  : and  I do  not  wish  to  spoil  his  skin,  — it  shall  orna- 
ment your  sledge  next  winter.’’ 

^ “Do  not  jest  at  such  a time,’’  continued  the  princess: 

' ‘ ‘ such  a moment  calls  forth  every  feeling  of  devotion  that 
can  fill  the  lienrt.’’ 


374 


A TALE. 


“ And  I never  felt  more  devout  than  now,”  added  Honorio, 
“and  therefore  are  my  thoughts  cheerful:  I only  consider 
how  this  creature’s  skin  may  serve  your  pleasure.” 

“ It  would  too  often  remind  me  of  this  dreadful  moment,” 
she  replied. 

“ And  yet,”  answered  the  youth  with  burning  cheek,  “ this 
triumph  is  more  innocent  than  that  in  which  the  anns  of  the 
defeated  are  borne  in  proud  procession  before  the  con- 
queror. ’ ’ 

“ I shall  never  forget  your  courage  and  skill,”  rejoined 
the  princess;  “and  let  me  add  that  you  maj’,  during  your 
whole  life,  command  the  gratitude  and  favor  of  the  prince. 
But  rise,  — the  monster  is  dead  : rise,  I say  ; and  let  us  think 
what  next  is  to  be  done.” 

“ Since  I find  myself  now  kneeling  before  you,”  replied 
Honorio,  “ 1^  me  be.ass.ured-£>£  n. -graces  of  a favor,  which 
you  can  bestow  upon  me.  I have  oftentimes  implored  your 
princely  husband  for  permission  to  set  out  upon  my  travels. 
He  who  dares  aspire  to  the  good  fortune  of  becoming  your 
guest  should  have  seen  the  world.  Travellers  flock  hither 
from  all  quarters  ; and  when  the  conversation  turns  on  some 
town,  or  on  some  peculiar  pait  of  the  globe,  your  guests  are 
asked  if  they  have  never  seen  the  same.  No  one  can  expect 
confidence  who  has  not  seen  every  thing.  We  must  instruct 
ourselves  for  the  benefit  of  others.” 

“ Ris^!  ” repeated  the..priucess  : “ I can  never  consent  to 
desire  or  request  any  thing  contrary  to  tlienvisji  of  iny  hus- 
band  ; but,  if  I mistake  not,  the  causo  of  your  detentiou-bere 
has  ali'.eady- been- rnmoved.  It  was  the  wish  of  your  prince 
to  mark  how  your  character  would  ripen,  and  prove  worthy 
of  an  independent  nobleman,  who  might  one  day  be  to  both 
himself  and  his  sovereign  as  great  an  honor  abroad,  as  had 
hitherto  been  the  case  here  at  court ; and  I doubt  not  that 
your  present  deed  of  bravery  will  prove  as  good  a passport 
as  any  youth  can  carry  with  him  through  the  world.” 

The  princess  had  scarcely  time  to  mark,  that,  instead  of  an 
expression  of  youthful  delight,  a shade  of  grief  now  dark- 
ened his  countenance ; and  he  could  scarcely  display  his 
emotion,  before  a woman  approached,  climbing  the  mountain 
hastily,  and  leading  a bo}'  by  the  hand.  Honorio  had  just 
risen  from  his  kneeling  posture,  and  seemed  lost  in  thought, 
when  the  woman  advanced  with  piercing  cries,  and  imme- 
diately flung  herself  upon  the  lifeless  body  of  the  tiger.  Her 
conduct,  no  less  than  her  gaudy  and  peculiar  attire,  bore 


A TALE. 


evidence  that  sj^,  was  the  owner  and  attendant  of  tlie  ani- 
mal. The  boy,  by  wliom  she  was  accompanied,  was  remark- 
able for  his  sparkling  eyes  and  Jet-black  hair.  He  carried  a 
flute  in  his  hand,  and  joined  his  tears  to  those  of  his  mother ; 
whilst,  with  a more  calm  but  deep-felt  sorrow  than  she  dis- 
played, he  knelt  quietly  at  her  side. 

The  violent  expression  of  this  wretched  woman’s  grief  was 
succeeded  by  a torrent  of  expostulations,  which  rushed  from 
her  in  broken  sentences,  reminding  one  of  a mountain  stream 
whose  course  is  interrupted  by  impeding  rocks.  Her  natural 
j expressions,  short  and  abrupt,  were  forcible  and  pathetic  : 
vain  would  be  the  endeavor  to  translate  them  into  our  idiom  ; 
j we  must  be  satisfied  with  their  general  meaning.  “They 
j have  murdei'ed  thee,  poor  animal,  murdered  thee  wdthout 
I cause ! Tamely  thou  wonkiest  have  lain  down  to  await  our 
1 arrival ; for  thj’  feet  pained  thee,  and  tlij^  claws  were  power- 
I less.  Thou  didst  lack  thy  burning  native  sun  to  bring  thee 
j;  to  maturity.  Thou  wert  the  most  beautiful  animal  of  thy 
; kind ! Whoever  beheld  a more  noble  royal  tiger  stretched 
i out  to  sleep,  than  thou  art  as  thou  best  here,  never  to  rise 
il  again?  When  in  the  morning  thou  awokest  at  the  earliest 
i dawn  of  day,  opening  thy  wide  jaws,  and  stretching  out  thy 
I:  ruddy  tongue,  thou  seemedst  to  us  to  smile  ; and  even  when 

t a growl  burst  from  thee,  still  didst  thou  ever  playfully  take 
thy  food  from  the  hand  of  a woman,  or  from  the  lingers  of  a 

I child.  Long  did  we  accompany  thee  in  thy  travels,  and  long 
j was  thy  society  to  us  as  indispensable  as  profitable.  To  us, 

II  in  very  truth,  did  food  come  from  the  ravenous,  and  sweet 
* refreshment  from  the  strong.  But  alas,  alas  ! this  can  never 
j be  again  ! ” 

ij  She  had  not  quite  ended  her  lamentations,  when  a troop 
of  horsemen  was  observed  riding  in  a body  over  the  heights 
.1  which  led  from  the  castle.  They  were  soon  recognized  as 
j the  hunting  cavalcade  of  the  prince,  and  he  himself  was  at 
j,  their  head.  Riding  amongst  the  distant  hills,  they  had  ob- 
' ii  served  the  dark  columns  of  smoke  which  obscured  the  atmos- 
if,  phere ; aud  pushing  on  over  hill  and  dale,  as  if  in  the  heat 
li  of  the  chase,  they  had  followed  tlie  course  indicated  by  the 
smoke,  which  served  them  as  a guide.  Rushing  forward, 
regardless  of  every  obstacle,  they  had  come  by  surprise  upon 
the  astonished  group,  who  presented  a remarkable  appear- 
ance in  the  opening  of  the  hills.  Their  mutual  recognition 
produced  a general  surprise  ; aud,  after  a short  pause,  a few 
words  of  explanation  cleared  up  the  apparent  mystery.  The 


[li 

>1i 


376 


A TALE. 


prince  heard  with  astonishment  the  extraoi’dinary  occurrence, 
as  he  stood  surrounded  by  the  crowd  of  attendants  on  foot 
and  on  horseback.  There  seemed  no  doubt  about  the  neces- 
sary course.  Orders  and  commands  were  at  once  issued  by 
the  prince. 

A stranger  now  forced  his  way  forward,  and  appeai'ed 
within  the  circle.  He  was  tall  in  figure,  and  attired  as 
gaudily  as  the  wmman  and  her  child.  , The  members  of  the 
family  recognized  each  other  with  mutual  surprise  and  pain. 
But  the  man,  collecting  himself,  stood  at  a respectful  distance 
from  the  prince,  and  addressed  him  thus  : — 

“This  is  not  a moment  for  complaining.  My  lord  and 
mighty  master,  tlie  lion  has  also  escaped_ajid  is  concealed 
somewhere  here  in  the  mountain  ; but  spare  him,,^  T implore 
you  ! have  mercy  upon  him,  that  he  ma}’  not  perish  like  this 
poor  animal ! ” 

“ The  lion  escaped ! ” exclaimed  the  prince.  “ Have  you 
found  his  track?  ’’ 

“ Yes,  sir.  A peasant  in  the  valley,  who  needlessly  took 
refuge  in  a tree,  pointed  to  the  direction  he  had  taken,  — this 
is  the  way,  to  the  left ; but,  perceiving  a crowd  of  men 
and  horses  before  me,  I became  curious  to  know  the  occasion 
of  their  assembling,  and  hastened  forward  to  obtain  help.” 

“Well,”  said  the  prince,  “the  chase  must  begin  in  this 
direction.  Load  your  rifles,  go  deliberately  to  work : no 
misfortune  can  happen,  if  you  but  drive  him  into  the  thick 
woods  below  us.  But  in  truth,  worthy  man,  we  can  scarcel3' 
spare  your  favorite ; why  were  you  negligent  enough  to  let 
him  escape?  ” 

“ The  fire  broke  out,”  replied  the  other,  “ and  we  remained 
quiet  and  prepared  : it  spread  quickly  round,  but  raged  at  a 
distance  from  us.  We  were  provided  with  water  in  abun- 
dance ; but  suddenly  an  explosion  of  gunpowder  took  place, 
and  the  conflagration  immediately  extended  to  us  and  beyond 
us.  We  w'ere  too  precipitate,  and  are  now  reduced  to  ruin.” 

The  prince  was  still  engaged  in  issuing  his  orders,  and 
there  was  general  silence  for  a moment,  when  a man  was 
observed  flying,  rather  than  running,  down  from  the  castle. 
He  was  quickly  recognized  as  the  watchman  of  the  artist's 
studio,  whose  business  it  was  to  occupy  the  dwelling  and  I 
look  after  the  workmen.  Breathless  he  advanced,  and  a ' 
few  words  served  to  announce  the  nature  of  his  business. 

“ The  lion  had  taken  refuge  on  the  heights,  and  had  lain 
down  in  the  sunshine  behind  the  lofty  walls  of  the  castle. 


A TALE. 


377 


f 

ii 

li 

it 


He  was  reposing  at  the  foot  of  an  old  tree  in  perfect  tran- 
quillity. But,”  continued  the  man  in  a tone  of  bitter  com- 
plaint, “ unfortunately,  I took  my  rifle  to  the  town  yesterday, 
to  have  it  repaired,  or  the  animal  had  never  risen  again  : his 
skin,  at  least,  would  have  been  mine ; and  I had  worn  it  in 
triumph  all  my  life.” 

The  prince,  whose  military  experience  had  often  served 
him  in  time  of  need,  — for  he  had  frequently  been  in  situa- 
tions where  unavoidable  danger  pressed  on  every  side,  — 
observed,  in  reply  to  the  man,  “ What  pledge  can  you  give, 
that,  if  we  spare  your  lion,  he  will  do  no  mischief  in  the 
country  ? ’ ’ 

“ My  wife  and  child,”  answered  the  father  hastily,  “ will 
quiet  him  and  lead  him  peacefully  along,  until  I repair  his 
shattered  cage ; and  then  we  shall  keep  him  harmless  and 
uninjured.” 

The  child  seemed  to  be  looking  for  his  flute.  It  was  that 
species  pf  instrument  which  is  sometimes  called  the  soft, 
sweet  flute,  short  in  the  mouthpiece,  like  a pipe.  Those  who 
understood  the  art  of  using  it  could  draw  from  it  the  most 
delicious  tones. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  prince  inquired  of  the  keeper  by 
which  path  the  lion  had  ascended  the  mountain. 

“ Through  the  low  road,”  replied  the  latter : “ it  is  walled 
in  on  both  sides,  has  long  been  the  only  passage,  and  shall 
continue  so.  Two  footpaths  originally  led  to  the  same  point ; 
but  we  destroyed  them,  that  there  might  remain  but  one  way 
to  that  castle  of  enchantment  and  beauty  which  is  to  be 
formed  by  the  taste  and  talent  of  Prince  Frederick.” 

After  a thoughtful  pause,  during  which  the  prince  stood 
contemplating  the  child,  who  continued  playing  softly  on  his 
flute,  the  former  turned  towards  Honorio,  and  said,  — 

‘ ‘ Thou  hast  this  day  performed  a great  deal : finish  the 
task  you  have  begun.  Occupy  the  narrow  road  of  which  we 
have  heard  ; hold  your  rifle  ready,  but  do  not  shoot  if  you 
think  it  likely  that  the  lion  may  be  driven  back  ; but,  under 
any  circumstances,  kindle  a fire,  that  he  may  be  afraid  to 
descend  in  this  direction.  The  man  and  his  wife  must 
answer  for  the  consequences.” 

Honorio  proceeded  without  delay  to  execute  the  orders  he 
had  received. 

The  child  went  on  with  his  tune,  which  was  not  exactly  a 
melody : but  a mere  succession  of  notes  followed,  without 
any  precise  order  or  artistic  arrangement ; yet,  perhaps  for 


378 


A TALE. 


this  very  reason,  the  effect  seemed  replete  with  enchantment. 
Every  one  was  delighted  with  the  simple  music ; when  the 
father,  full  of  a noble  enthusiasm,  addressed  the  assembled 
spectators  thus  : — 

“God  has  bestowed  the  gift  of  wisdom  upon  the  prince, 
and  the  power  of  seeing  that  all  divine  works  are  good,  each 
after  its  kind.  Behold  how  the  rocks  stand  firm  and  motion- 
less, proof  against  the  effects  of  sun  aud  storm.  Their  sum- 
mits are  crowned  with  ancient  trees ; and,  elated  with  the 
pride  of  their  ornaments,  they  look  round  boldly  far  aud  wide. 
But,  should  a part  become  detached,  it  no  longer  appears  as 
before : it  breaks  into  a thousand  pieces,  aud  covers  the  side 
of  the  declivity.  But  even  there  the  pieces  find  no  resting- 
place  : they  pursue  their  course  downwards,  till  the  brook 
receives  them,  and  carries  them  onward  to  the  river.  Thence, 
unresisting  and  submissive,  their  sharp  angles  having  become 
rounded  aud  smooth,  they  are  borne  along  with  gi’eater 
velocity  from  stream  to  stream,  till  they  finally  attain  the 
oceau,  in  whose  mighty  depths  giants  abide  au^  dwarfs 
abound. 

“ But  who  celebrates  the  praise  of  the  Lord,  whom  the  stars 
praise  from  all  eternity?  Whj^,  however,  should  we  direct 
our  vision  so  far?  Behold  the  bee,  how  he  makes  his  pro- 
vision in  harvest-time,  and  constructs  a dwelling,  correct  iu 
angle  aud  level,  at  once  the  architect  and  workman.  Behold 
the  aiit : she  knows  her  way,  aud  loses  it  not ; she  builds  her 
habitation  of  grass  and  earth  and  tiny  twigs,  builds  it  high, 
and  strengthens  it  with  arches,  but  iu  vain.  — the  prancing 
steed  approaches,  aud  treads  it  into  nothing,  destroying  the 
little  rafters  and  supports  of  the  edifice.  He  snorts  with  im- 
patience aud  with  restlessness  ; for  the  Lord  has  formed  the 
horse  as  companion  to  the  wiud,  aud  brother  to  the  storm, 
that  he  may  carry  mankind  whither  he  will.  But  iu  the  palm- 
forest  even  he  takes  to  flight.  There,  in  the  wilderness,  tlie 
lion  roams  iu  proud  majest}: : he  is  monarch  of  the  beasts, 
and  nothing  can  resist  his  strength.  But  man  has  sifUduCd ~ 
his  valor : the  mightiest  of  animals  has  respect  for  the  image 
of  God,  iu  which  the  very  angels  are  formed  : aud  they  minis- 
ter to  the  Lord  aud  his  servants.  Daniel  trembled  not  iu  the 
lions’  den  : he  stood  full  of  faith  and  holy  confidence,  aud 
the  wild  roaring  of  the  monsters  did  not  interrupt  his  pious 
soug.” 

This  address,  which  was  delivered  with  an  expression  of 
natural  enthusiasm,  was  accompanied  by  the  child’s  sweet 


A TALE. 


379 


music.  But,  when  his  father  had  concluded,  the  boy  com- 
menced to  sing  with  clear  and  sonorous  voice,  and  some 
degree  of  skill.  His  parent  in  the  mean  time  seized  his  flute, 
and  in  soft  notes  accompanied  the  child  as  he  sung  : — 

1“  Hear  the  prophet’s  song  ascending 
From  the  cavern’s  dark  retreat. 

Whilst  an  angel,  earthward  bending, 

■ Cheers  his  soul  with  accents  sweet. 

I Fear  and  terror  come  not  o’er  him, 

! As  the  lion’s  angry  brood 

ii  Crorrch  witli  placid  mien  before  him, 

“ By  his  holy  song  subdued.” 

The  father  continued  to  accompany  the  verses  with  his 
flute,  whilst  the  mother’s  voice  was  occasionally  heard  to  in- 
tervene as  second. 

The  effect  of  the  whole  was  rendered  more  peculiar  and 
impressive  by  the  child’s  frequently  inverting  the  order  of 
the  verses.  And  if  he  did  not,  by  this  artifice,  give  a new 
sense  an^  meaning  to  the  whole,  he  at  least  highly  excited 
the  feelings  of  his  audience  : — 

“ Angels  o’er  us  mildly  bending, 

Cheer  us  with  their  voices  sweet. 

Hark!  what  strains  enchant  the  ear! 

In  the  cavern’s  dark  retreat, 

Can  the  prophet  quake  with  fear  ? 

Holy  accents,  sweetly  blending, 

Banish  ev’ry  earthly  ill, 

I Whilst  an  angel  choir  descending, 

Executes  the  heavenly  will.” 

Then  all  three  joined  with  force  and  emphasis : — 

^ “Since  the  eternal  Eye,  far-seeing, 

I Earth  and  sea  surveys  in  peace, 

j|  Lion^alL\dJlLlainb  agreeing 

t6JliP-estS- cease. 

I Warriors’  sword  lib  more  sliall  lew 

Faitli  and  Hope  their'fruit  shaU  beax; 

! Wbiidrous  is  the.  mighty  power 

j Of  Love,  which  pours-  its  soul  in  prayer.” 

I! 

I The  music  ceased.  Silence  reigned  around.  Each  one 
listened  attentively  to  the  dying  tones,  and  now  only  one 
could  observe  and  note  the  general  impression.  Every  lis- 
tener was  overcome,  though  each  was  affected  in  a different 
j manner.  The  prince  looked  sorrowfully  at  his  wife,  as 
j though  he  had  only  just  perceived  the  danger  vfhich  had 


380 


A TALE. 


lately  threatened  him  ; whilst  she,  leaning  upon  his  arm,  did 
not  hesitate  to  draw  forth  her  embroidered  handkerchief  to 
dry  tlie  starting  tear.  It  was  delightful  to  relieve  her  youth- 
ful heart  from  the  weight  of  grief  with  which  she  had  for 
some  time  felt  oppressed.  A general  silence  reigned  around ; 
and  forgotten  were  the  fears  which  all  had  experienced,  both 
from  the  conflagration  below  and  the  appearance  of  the  for- 
midable lion  above. 

The  repose  of  the  whole  company  was  first  intemipted  by 
the  prince,  who  made  a signal  to  lead  the  horses  nearer : he 
then  turned  to  the  woman,  and  addressed  her  thus:  ‘‘You 
think,  then,  to  master  the  lion  wherever  you  meet  him, 
by  the  power  of  your  song,  assisted  by  that  of  the  child 
and  the  tones  of  your  flute,  and  believe  that  you  can  thus 
lead  him  harmless  and  uninjured  to  his  cage?  ” 

She  protested  and  assured  him  that  she  would  do  so, 
whereupon  a servant  was  ordered  to  show  her  the  way  to  the 
castle.  The  prince  and  a few  of  his  attendants  now  took 
their  departure  hastilj" ; whilst  the  princess,  accompanied 
by  the  rest,  followed  more  slowly  after.  But  the  mother 
and  the  child,  accompanied  by  the  servant,  who  had  armed 
himself  with  a rifle,  hastened  to  ascend  the  mountain. 

At  the  very  entrance  of  the  narrow  road  which  led  to  the 
castle,  they  found  the  hunting  attendants  busily  employed 
in  piling  together  heaps  of  dry  brushwood,  to  kindle  a large 
fire. 

“ There  is  no  uecessit}'  for  such  precaution,”  observed  the 
woman  : “ all  will  yet  turn  out  well.” 

They  perceived  Honorio  at  a little  distance  from  them, 
sitting  upon  a fragment  of  the  wall,  with  his  double-barrelled 
rifle  in  his  lap,  prepared  as  it  seemed  for  every  emergency.  1 
But  he  paid  little  attention  to  the  people  who  approached:  h 
he  was  absorbed  in  his  own  contemplations,  and  seemed  jl 
engaged  in  deepest  thought.  The  woman  euti’eated  that  he  1 1 
would  not  permit  the  fire  to  be  kindled : he,  however,  paid  i 
not  the  smallest  attention  to  her  request.  She  then  raised  ( 
her  voice,  and  exclaimed,  “Thou  handsome  youth  who  j: 
killed  my  tiger,  I curse  thee  not ; but  spare  my  lion,  and  I will  j I 
bless  thee  ! ” | 

But  Honorio  was  looking  upon  vacancy : his  eyes  were  | i 
bent  upon  the  sun,  which  had  finished  its  daily  course,  and  1 1 
was  now  about  to  set. 

“You  are  looking  to  the  setting  sun,”  cried  the  woman;  ' • 
and  you  are  right,  for  there  is  yet  much  to  do : but  hasten,  | : 


A TALE. 


381 


delay  not,  and  you  will  conquer,  But,  first  of  all,  conquer 
yourself.”  He  seemed  to  smile  at  this  observation.  The 
woman“passed  on,  but  could  not  avoid  looking  round  to 
observe  him  once  more.  The  setting  sun  had  cast  a rosy 
glowyipoq  his  countenance:  she  thongJit  she  had  never  be- 
liehi  so  handaome  a youth. 

“If  your  child,”  said  the  attendant,  “can,  as  you  ima- 
gine, with  his  fluting  and  his  singing,  entice  and  ti’anquillize 
the  lion,  we  shall  easily  succeed  in  mastering  him ; for  the 
ferocious  animal  has  lain  down  to  sleep  under  the  broken 
arch,  tlu’ough  which  we  have  secured  a passage  into  the 
castle-court,  as  the  chief  entrance  has  been  long  in  ruins. 
Let  the  child,  then,  entice  him  inside,  when  we  can  close  the 
gate  without  difficulty ; and  the  child  may,  if  he  please, 

I escape  by  a small  winding  staircase,  which  is  situated  in  one 
i of  the  corners.  We  may,  in  the  mean  time,  conceal  our- 
! selves ; but  I shall  take  up  a position  which  will  enable  me 
to  assist  the  child  at  any  moment  with  my  rifle.” 
i “ These  preparations  are  all  needless : Heaven,  and  our 
own  skill,  bravery,  and  good  fortune,  are  our  best  defence.” 
j “ But  first  let  me  conduct  you  by  this  steep  ascent  to  the 
i top  of  the  tower,  right  opposite  to  the  entrance  of  which  I 
have  spoken.  The  child  may  then  descend  into  the  arena, 
I and  there  he  can  try  to  exercise  his  power  over  the  obedient 
animal.” 

1 This  was  done.  Concealed  above,  the  attendant  and  the 
mother  surveyed  the  proceeding.  The  child  descended  the 
I,  narrow  staircase,  and  soon  appeared  in  the  wide  court-yard. 
||  He  immediately  entered  into  the  narrow  opening  opposite, 
< when  the  sweet  sounds  of  his  flute  were  heard ; but  these 
' gradually  diminished,  till  they  finally  ceased.  The  pause 
j was  fearful : the  solemnity  of  the  proceeding  filled  the  old 
1 attendant  with  apprehension,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  every 
\ sort  of  danger.  He  declared  that  he  would  rather  engage 
S the  enraged  animal  himself.  But  the  mother  preserved  her 
ij  cheerful  countenance,  and,  leaning  over  the  parapet  in  a 
fi  listening  attitude,  betrayed  not  the  slightest  sign  of  fear, 
i At  length  the  flute  was  heard  again.  The  child  had  issued 
( from  the  dark,  recess,  his.,  tace  beaming  with  triumph : the 

I lion  was  slowly  following,  and  seemed  to  walk  with  difficulty. 
Now  and  then  the  animal  appeared  disposed  to  lie  down ; 
hut  the  child  continued  to  lead  him  quietly  along,  bending 
his  way  through  the  half-leafless  autumn-tinged  trees,  until 
j he  arrived  at  a spot  which  was  illumined  by  the  last  rays  of 

t 

\ 


382 


A TALE. 


the  setting  sun.  They  were  shedding  their  parting  glory 
through  the  ruins  ; and  in  this  spot  he  recommenced  his  sweet 
song,  which  we  cannot  refrain  from  repeating  : — 

“Hear  the  prophet’s  song  ascending 
From  the  cavern’s  dark  retreat, 

Whilst  an  angel,  earthward  bending. 

Cheers  his  soul  with  accents  sweet. 

Fear  and  terror  come  not  o’er  him, 

As  the  lion’s  angry  brood 
Crouch  with  placid  mien  before  him. 

By  his  holy  song  subdued.” 

The  lion,  in  the  mean  time,  had  lain  quietly  down,  and, 
raising  his  hea\^  paw,  had  placed  it  in  the  lap  of  the  child. 
The  latter  stroked  it  gently,  and  continued  his  chant,  but 
soon  observed  that  a sharp  thorn  had  penetrated  into  the 
ball  of  the  animal’s  foot.  With  great  tenderness,  the  child 
extracted  the  thorn,  and,  taking  his  bright-colored  silk  hand- 
kerchief from  his  neck,  bound  it  round  the  foot  of  the  huge 
creature ; whilst  the  attentive  mother,  still  joyfully  leaning 
over  the  parapet  with  outstretched  arms,  would  probably,  as 
was  her  wont,  have -testified  her  approbation  with  loud  shouts 
and  clapping  of  hands,  if  the  attendant  had  not  rudely 
seized  her,  and  reminded  her  that  the  danger  was  not  yet 
completely  over. 

The  child  now  joyfully  continued  his  song,  after  he  had 
hummed  a few  notes  by  way  of  prelude  : — 

“Since  the  eternal  Eye,  far-seeing, 

Eartli  and  sea  surveys  in  peace, 

Lion  shall  with  lamb  agreeing 
Live,  and  angry  tempests  cease. 

AVarriors’  sword  no  more  shall  lower. 

Faith  and  Hope  their  fruit  shall  bear: 

W’'ondrous  is  the  mighty  power 
Of  Love,  which  pours  its  soul  in  prayer.” 

If  it  were  possible  to  conceive  that  the  features  of  so  fierce 
a monster,  at  once  the  tyrant  of  the  forest  and  the  despot  of 
the  animal  kingdom,  could  display  an  expression  of  pleasure 
and  grateful  joy,  it  might  have  been  witnessed  upon  this 
occasion  ; and,  in  very  truth,  the  child,  in  the  fulness  of  his 
beauty,  looked  like  some  victorious  conqueror ; though  it 
could  not  be  said  that  the  lion  seemed  subdued,  for  his 
mighty  power  was  only  for  a time  concealed.  He  wore  the 
aspect  of  a tamed  creature,  who  had  been  content  to  make  a 
.voluntary  surrender  of  the  mighty  power  with  which  it  was 


A TALE. 


883 


endued.  And  thus  the  child  continued  to  play  and  to  sing, 
transposing  his  verses  or  adding  to  them,  as  he  felt  inclined. 

“ Holy  angels,  still  untiring, 

Aid  the  good  and  virtuous  child, 

Every  noble  deed  inspiring. 

And  restraining  actions  wild. 

So  the  forest  king  to  render 
Tame  as  child  at  parent’s  knee, 

Still  be  gentle,  kind,  and  tender, 

Use  sweet  love  and  melody.” 


THE  END. 


THE  HOUSEHOLD  EDITON. 


GOETHE’S 

LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND, 

AND 

TRAYELS  IN  ITALY. 

iFrom  tlje  German. 

BY 

REV.  A.  J.  W.  MORRISON,  M.A. 


7 


NEW  YOEK; 

JOHN  D.  WILLIAMS, 
21  West  Eoubtebxth  Steeet. 


Copyright,  18SS, 
Bt  S.  E.  Cassino. 


TROW’S 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COUPAKY, 
NEW  YORK. 


CONTENTS 


LETTEES  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 

PAGE 

First  Part 7 

Second  Part 18 

TRAVELS  IN  ITALY. 

From  Carlsbad  to  the  Brenner 71 

From  the  Brenner  to  Verona 84 

From  Verona  to  Venice 99 

Venice 120 

From  Ferrara  to  Rome 152 

Rome 176 

Naples 227 

Sicily 269 


V'ji: 


s. 


»T 


\ 


■ ■ 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


\ ■ ■ 

Cf/.-,  ' 


i ■ 


- ".JUJ  ■ 


LETTEKS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


When,  a few  years  ago,  the  copies  of  the  following  letters 
were  first  made  known  to  ns,  it  was  asserted  that  they  had 
been  found  among  Werther’s  papers  ; and  it  was  pretended, 
that,  before  his  acquaintance  with  Charlotte,  he  had  been  in 
Switzerland.  We  have  never  seen  the  originals  . however, 
we  would  not  on  any  account  anticipate  the  judgment  and 
feelings  of  our  readers  ; for,  whatever  may  be  their  true 
history,  it  is  impossible  to  read  them  without  sympathy. 


PART  THE  FIRST. 

How  do  all  my  descriptions  disgust  me,  when  I read  them 
over  ! Nothing  but  your  advice,  your  command,  j'our  injunc- 
tion, could  have  induced  me  to  attempt  any  thing  of  the  kind. 
How  many  descriptions,  too,  of  these  scenes,  had  I not  read 
before  I saw  them ! Did  these,  then,  afford  me  an  image  of 
them,  or,  at  best,  but  a mere  vague  notion?  In  vain  did 
my  imagination  attempt  to  bring  the  objects  before  it : in 
vain  did  my  mind  try  to  revolve  from  them  some  thoughts. 
Here  I now  stand  contemplating  these  wonders  ; and  what 
are  my  feelings  in  the  midst  of  them  ! I can  think  of  noth- 
ing, I can  feel  nothing  ; and  how  willingly  would  I both 
think  and  feel ! The  glorious  scene  before  me  excites  my 
soul  to  its  inmost  depths,  and  impels  me  to  be  doing ; and 
yet  what  can  I do  — what  do  I?  I now  sit  down  and  scrib- 
ble and  describe.  Away  with  j'ou,  ye  descriptions  ! Delude 
my  friend,  make  him  believe  that  I am  doing  something,  — 
that  he  sees  and  reads  something. 

Were,  then,  these  Switzers  free?  — free,  these  opulent 
burghers  in  their  little  pent-up  towns?  — free,  those  poor 

7 


8 


LETTERS  FRO^kl  SWITZERLAND. 


devils  on  their  rocks  and  crags  ? What  is  it  that  man  can- 
not be  made  to  believe,  especially  when  he  cherishes  in  his 
heart  the  memory  of  some  old  tale  of  marvel?  Once,  for- 
sooth, they  did  break  a tyrant’s  yoke,  and  might,  for  the 
moment,  fancy  themselves  free  ; bat  out  of  the  carcass  of 
the  single  oppressor  the  good  sun,  by  a strange  new  birth, 
lias  hatched  a swarm  of  petty  tyrants.  And  so,  now,  they 
are  ever  telling  that  old  tale  of  marvel : one  hears  it  till  one 
is  sick  of  it.  They  formerly  made  themselves  free,  and 
have  ever  since  remained  free ; and  now  they  sit  behind 
their  walls,  hugging  themselves  with  their  cnstoms  and  laws 
— their  philandering  and  philistering.  And  there,  too,  on 
the  rocks,  it  is  surely  fine  to  talk  of  libert}’,  when  for  six 
months  of  the  year,  they,  like  the  marmot,  are  bound  hand 
and  foot  by  the  snow. 

Alas ! how  wretched  must  any  work  of  man  look  in  the 
midst  of  this  great  and  glorious  Nature,  but  especially  such 
sorry,  poverty-stricken  works  as  these  black  and  dirt}’  little 
towns,  such  mean  heaps  of  stones  and  rubbish ! Large 
rubble  and  other  stones  on  the  roofs,  too,  that  the  miserable 
thatch  may  not  be  carried  off  from  the  top  of  them  ; and 
then  the  filth,  the  dung,  and  the  gaping  idiots  ! When  here 
you  meet  with  man  and  the  wretched  work  of  his  hands,  you 
are  glad  to  run  away  immediately  from  both. 

That  there  are  in  man  very  many  intellectual  capacities 
which  in  this  life  he  is  unable  to  develop,  which,  therefore, 
point  to  a better  future  and  to  a more  harmonious  state  of 
existence,  — on  this  point  we  are  both  agreed.  But,  further 
than  this,  I cannot  give  np  that  other  fanc}’  of  mine,  even 
though,  on  account  of  it,  j’ou  may  again  call  me,  as  }'OU  have 
so  often  done  already,  a mere  enthusiast.  For  my  part.  I do 
think  that  man  feels  conscious,  also,  of  corporeal  qualities 
of  whose  mature  expansion  he  can  have  no  hope  in  this  life. 
This,  most  assuredly,  is  the  case  with  flying.  How  strong- 
ly, at  one  time,  used  the  clouds,  as  the}’  drove  along  the  blue 
sky,  to  tempt  me  to  travel  with  them  to  foreign  lands  ! and 
now  in  what  danger  do  I stand,  lest  they  should  carry 
me  away  with  them  from  the  mountain-peak  as  they  sweep 
violently  by  ! What  desire  I feel  to  throw  myself  into  the 
boundless  regions  of  the  air,  to  poise  over  the  terrific 
abyss,  or  to  alight  on  some  otherwise  inaccessible  rock ! 
With  what  a longing  do  I draw  deeper  and  deeper  breath. 


LETTERS  FROlVf  SWITZERLAND. 


9 


when,  in  the  dark  blue  depth  below  me,  the  eagle  soars  over 
rocks  and  forests,  or,  in  company  and  in  sweet  concord  with 
his  mate,  wheels  in  wide  circles  round  the  eyry  to  which  he 
has  intrusted  his  young ! Must  I,  then,  never  do  more  than 
creep  up  to  the  summits  ? Must  I always  go  on  clinging  to 
the  highest  rocks,  as  well  as  to  the  lowest  plain?  and  when 
I have  at  last,  with  much  toil,  reached  the  desired  eminence, 
must  I still  anxiously  grasp  at  every  holding-place,  shudder 
at  the  thought  of  return,  and  tremble  at  the  chance  of  a 
fall? 

With  what  wonderful  properties  we  are  born ! What 
vague  aspirations  rise  within  us ! How  rarely  do  imagina- 
tion and  our  bodily  powers  work  in  opposition  ! Peculiari- 
ties of  my  early  boyhood  again  recur.  While  I am  walking, 
and  have  a long  road  before  me,  my  arms  go  dangling  by 
my  side ; I at  times  make  a grasp,  as  if  I would  seize  a 
javelin,  and  hurl  it,  I know  not  at  whom  or  what;  and  then 
I fancy  an  arrow  is  shot  at  me  which  pierces  me  to  the 
heart ; I strike  my  hand  upon  my  breast,  and  feel  an  inex- 
pressible sweetness  ; and  then  after  this  I soon  revert  to  my 
natural  state.  Whence  comes  this  strange  phenomenon? 
what  is  the  meaning  of  it?  and  why  does  it  invariably  recur 
under  the  same  figures,  in  the  same  bodily  movement,  and 
with  the  same  sensation? 

I am  repeatedly  told  that  the  people  who  have  met  me  on 
my  journey  are  little  satisfied  with  me.  I can  readily 
believe  it,  for  neither  has  any  one  of  them  contributed  to 
my  satisfaction.  I cannot  tell  how  it  comes  to  pass  that 
society  oppresses  me,  that  the  forms  of  politeness  are  dis- 
agreeable to  me,  that  what  people  talk  about  does  not 
interest  me,  that  all  they  show  to  me  is  either  quite  indif- 
ferent, or  else  produces  an  impression  quite  opposite  to  what 
they  expect.  When  I am  shown  a drawing  or  painting  of 
any  beautiful  spot,  immediately  a feeling  of  disquiet  arises 
within  me  which  is  utterly  inexpressible.  My  toes  within 
my  shoes  begin  to  bend,  as  if  they  would  clutch  the  ground  ; 
a cramp-like  motion  runs  through  my  fingers,.  I bite  my 
lips,  and  hasten  to  leave  the  company  I am  in,  and  throw 
myself  down,  in  the  presence  of  the  majesty  of  nature,  on 
the  first  seat,  however  inconvenient.  I try  to  take  in  the 
scene  before  me  with  my  eye,  to  seize  all  its  beauties  ; and 
on  the  spot  I love  to  cover  a whole  sheet  with  scratches 


10 


LETTERS  FROM*SWITZERLAXD. 


which  represent  nothing  exactly,  but  which,  nevertheless, 
possess  an  infinite  value  in  my  eyes,  as  serving  to  remind 
me  of  the  happy  moment  whose  bliss  even  this  bungling 
exercise  could  not  mar.  What  means,  then,  this  strange 
effort  to  pass  from  art  to  nature,  and  then  back  again  from 
nature  to  art?  If  it  gives  promise  of  au  artist,  why  is 
steadiness  wanting  to  me?  If  it  calls  me  to  enjoyment, 
wherefore,  then,  am  I not  able  to  seize  it?  I lately  had  a 
present  of  a basket  of  fruit.  I was  in  raptures  at  the  sight 
of  it,  as  of  something  heavenly,  — such  riches,  such  abun- 
dance, such  variety,  and  yet  such  affinity ! I could  not 
persuade  myself  to  pluck  off  a single  berry  : I could  not 
bring  myself  to  take  a single  peach  or  a fig.  Most  assur- 
edly this  gratification  of  the  eye  and  the  inner  sense  is  the 
highest,  and  most  worthy  of  man  : in  all  probability  it  is  the 
design  of  Nature,  when  the  hungry  and  thirsty  believe  that 
she  has  exhausted  herself  in  marvels  merely  for  the  grati- 
fication of  their  palate.  Ferdinand  came  and  found  me 
in  the  midst  of  these  meditations.  He  did  me.  justice,  and 
then  said,  smiling,  but  with  a deep  sigh,  “Yes.  we  are  not 
worthy  to  consume  these  glorious  products  of  Nature  : truly 
it  were  a pit^x  Permit  me  to  make  a present  of  them  to  my 
beloved  ? ’ ’ How  glad  was  I to  see  the  basket  carried  off ! 
How  did  I love  Ferdinand  ! How  did  I thank  him  for  the 
feeling  he  had  excited  in  me,  for  the  prospect  he  gave  me ! 
Ay,  we  ought  to  acquaint  ourselves  with  the  beautiful : we 
ought  to  contemplate  it  with  rapture,  and  attempt  to  raise 
ourselves  up  to  its  height.  And,  in  order  to  gain  strength 
for  that,  we  must  keep  ourselves  thoroughly  unselfish  : we 
must  not  make  it  our  own,  but  rather  seek  to  communicate 
it,  indeed,  to  make  a sacrifice  of  it  to  those  who  are  dear 
and  precious  to  us. 

How  sedulously  we  are  shaped  and  moulded  in  our  youth ! 
how  constantly  we  then  are  called  on  to  lay  aside  now 
this,  now  that,  bad  feeling  ! But  what,  in  fact,  are  our  so- 
called  bad  feelings,  but  so  many  organs  by  means  of  which 
man  is  to  aid  himself  in  life  ? How  people  worry  a poor  child 
in  whom  but  a little  spark  of  vanity  is  discovered  I and  yet 
what  a poor  miserable  creature  is  a man  who  has  no  vanity 
at  all ! I will  now  tell  you  what  has  led  me  to  make  all  these 
refiections.  The  day  b.efore  yesterday  we  were  joined  by  a 
young  fellow  who  was  most  disagreeable  to  me  and  Ferdinand. 
His  weak  points  were  so  prominent,  his  emptiness  so  maui- 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


11 


fest,  and  the  care  he  bestowed  on  his  outward  appearance  so 
obvious,  that  we  looked  dowu  upon  him  as  far  inferior  to 
ourselves  ; and  yet  he  was  everywhere  received  better  than 
we.  Among  other  of  his  follies,  he  wore  a waistcoat  of 
red  satin,  which  round  the  neck  was  so  cut  as  to  look  like 
the  ribbon  of  some  order  or  other.  We  could  not  refrain 
from  joking  about  this  piece  of  absurdity.  But  he  let  them  all 
pass  ; for  he  drew  a good  profit  from  it,  and  perhaps  secretly 
laughed  at  us.  For  host  and  hostess,  coachman,  waiter,  and 
chambermaid,  and,  indeed,  not  a few  of  our  fellow-travel- 
lers, were  taken  in  by  this  seeming  ornament,  and  showed 
greater  politeness  to  him  to  than  us.  Not  only  was  he  always 
first  waited  upon,  but,  to  our  great  humiliation,  we  saw  that 
all  the  pretty  girls  in  the  inns  bestowed  all  their  stolen 
glances  upon  him.  And  then,  when  it  came  to  the  reckoning, 
which  his  eminence  and  distinction  had  enhanced,  we  had  to 
pay  our  full  shares.  Who,  then,  was  the  fool  in  the  game  ? 
Assuredly  not  he. 

There  is  something  pretty  and  instructive  about  the 
symbols  and  maxims  which  one  here  sees  on  all  the  stoves. 
Here  you  have  the  drawing  of  one  of  these  symbols  which 
particularly  caught  my  fancy.  A horse,  tethered  by  his  hind- 
foot  to  a stake,  is  grazing  round  it  as  far  as  his  tether  will 
permit;  beneath  is  written,  “Allow  me  to  take  my  allotted 
portion  of  food.”  This,  too,  will  be  the  case  with  me  when 
I come  home,  and,  like  the  horse  in  the  mill,  shall  have  to 
work  away  at  your  pleasure,  and  in  return,  like  the  horse 
here  on  the  stove,  shall  receive  a nicely  measured  dole  for 
my  support.  Yes,  I am  coming  back  ; and  what  awaits  me 
was  certainly  well  worth  all  the  trouble  of  climbing  up  these 
mountain  heights,  of  wandering  through  these  valleys,  and 
seeing  this  blue  sky,  of  discovering  that  there  is  a nature 
which  exists  by  an  eternal,  voiceless  necessit}',  which  has  no 
wants,  no  feelings,  and  is  divine  ; whilst  we,  whether  in  the 
country  or  in  the  towns,  have  alike  to  toil  hard  to  gain  a 
miserable  subsistence,  and  at  the  same  time  struggle  to  subject 
every  thing  to  our  lawless  caprice,  and  call  it  liberty. 

Ay,  I have  ascended  the  Furca,  — the  summit  of  St.  Go- 
thard.  These  sublime,  incomparable  scenes  of  nature  will 
ever  stand  before  my  eye.  Ay,  I have  read  the  Roman 
history  in  order  to  gain  from  the  comparison  a distinct  and 
vivid  feeling  what  a thoroughly  miserable  being  I am. 


12 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


Never  has  it  been  so  clear  to  me  as  during  these  last  few 
days,  that  I,  too,  could  be  happy  on  moderate  means  ; could 
be  quite  as  happy  as  any  one  else,  if  only  I knew  a trade,  — 
an  exciting  one,  indeed,  but  yet  one  which  had  no  conse- 
quences for  the  morrow,  which  required  nothing  but  industry 
and  attention  at  the  time,  without  calling  for  either  foresight 
or  retrospection.  Every  mechanic  seems  to  me  the  happiest 
of  mortals  : all  he  has  to  do  is  alread}"  settled  for  him,  what 
he  can  do  is  fixed  and  known.  He  has  not  to  rack  his  brains 
over  the  task  that  is  set  him.  He  works  away  without  think- 
ing, without  exertion  or  haste,  but  still  with  diligeuce  and 
pleasure  in  his  work,  like  a bird  building  its  nest,  or  a bee 
constructing  its  cells.  He  is  but  a degree  above  the  beasts, 
and  yet  he  is  a perfect  man.  How  do  I envy  the  potter  at 
his  wheel,  or  the  joiner  behind  his  bench ! 

Tilling  the  soil  is  not  to  my  liking : this  first  and  most 
necessary  of  man’s  occupations  is  disagreeable  to  me.  In  it 
man  does  but  ape  Nature,  who  scatters  her  seeds  eveiywhere  ; 
whereas  man  would  choose  that  a particular  field  should  pro- 
duce none  but  one  particular  fruit.  But  things  do  not  go  on 
exactly  so : the  weeds  spring  up  luxuriantly  ; the  cold  and 
wet  injures  the  crop,  or  the  hail  cuts  it  off  entirely.  The 
poor  husbandman  anxiousl}'  waits  throughout  the  year  to  see 
how  the  cards  will  decide  the  game  with  the  clouds,  and 
determine  whether  he  shall  win  or  lose  his  stakes.  Such  a 
doubtful,  ambiguous  condition  may  be  right  suitable  to  man  in 
his  present  ignorance,  while  he  knows  not  whence  he  came, 
nor  whither  he  is  going.  It  may,  then,  be  tolerable  to  man  to 
resign  all  his  labors  to  chance  ; and  thus  the  parson,  at  any 
rate,  has  an  opportunity,  when  things  look  thoroughly  bad.  to 
remind  him  of  Providence,  and  to  connect  the  sins  of  his 
flock  with  the  incidents  of  Nature. 

So,  then,  I have  nothing  to  joke  Ferdinand  about ! I,  too, 
have  met  with  a pleasant  adventure.  Adv'euture  ! — why  do  I 
use  the  silly  word  ? There  is  nothing  of  adventure  in  a gentle 
attraction  which  draws  man  to  man.  Our  social  life,  our  false 
.relations  — those  are  adventures,  those  are  monstrosities  : and 
yet  they  come  before  us  as  well  known,  and  as  nearly  akin  to 
us,  as  uncle  and  aunt. 

We  had  been  introduced  to  Herr  Tiidou  ; and  we  found  our- 
selves very  happy  among  this  family,  — rich,  open-hearted, 
good-natured,  lively  people,  who  in  the  society  of  their 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


13 


children,  in  comfort  and  without  care,  enjoy  the  good  which 
each  daj'  brings  with  it,  their  property,  and  their  glorious 
neighborhood.  We  young  folks  were  not  required,  as  is  too 
often  the  case  in  so  many  formal  households,  to  sacriflc'e  our- 
selves at  the  card-table  in  order  to  humor  the  old.  On  the 
contrary,  the  old  people  — father,  mother,  and  aunts  — gath- 
ered round  us,  when,  for  our  own  amusement,  we  got  up  some 
little  games  in  which  chance  and  thought  and  wit  had  their 
counteracting  influence.  Eleonora,  for  I must  now  at  last 
mention  her  name,  — the  second  daughter  (her  image  will  for- 
ever be  present  to  my  mind),  — a slim  slight  frame,  deli- 
ately  chiselled  features,  a bright  eye,  a palish  complexion, 
which  in  young  girls  of  her  age  is  rather  pleasing  than  dis- 
agreeable, as  being  a sign  of  no  veiy  incurable  a malady  : on 
the  whole,  her  appearance  was  extremely  agreeable.  She 
seemed  cheerful  and  lively,  and  every  one  felt  at  his  ease  with 
her.  Soon,  indeed  I may  venture  to  say  at  once,  — at  once, 
on  the  very  first  evening,  she  made  me  her  companion  : she  sat 
by  my  side  ; and,  if  the  game  separated  us  a moment,  she  soon 
contrived  to  find  her  old  place  again.  I was  gay  and  cheerful. 
My  journey,  the  beautiful  weather,  the  country  — all  had  con- 
tributed to  produce  in  mean  immoderate  cheerfulness,  — ay,  I 
might  almost  venture  to  say  a state  of  excitement.  I derived 
it  from  every  thing,  and  imparted  it  to  every  thing  : even  Fer- 
dinand seemed  to  forget  his  fair  one.  We  had  almost  ex- 
hausted ourselves  in  varying  our  amusements,  when  we  at  last 
thought  of  the  “game  of  matrimoii}'.”  The  names  of  the 
ladies  and  of  the  gentlemen  were  thrown  separately  into  two 
hats,  and  then  the  pairs  were  drawn  out  one  by  one.  On  each 
couple  as  determined  by  the  lot,  one  of  the  company  whose 
turn  it  might  happen  to  be  had  to  write  a little  poem.  Eveiy 
one  of  the  party  — father,  iliother,  and  aunts  — were  obliged  to 
put  their  names  in  the  hats.  We  cast  in,  besides,  the  names  of 
our  ticquaintauces,  and,  to  enlarge  the  number  of  candidates 
for  matrimon3',  we  threw  in  those  of  all  the  w'ell-known  char- 
acters of  the  literary  and  of  the  political  world.  We  com- 
menced playing,  and  the  first  pairs  that  were  drawn  were 
highly  distinguished  personages.  It  was  not  every  one,  how- 
ever, who  was  ready  at  once  with  his  verses.  N/ie,  Ferdinand 
and  myself,  and  one  of  the  aunts,  who  wrote  very  pretty 
verses  in  French  — we  soon  divided  amono-  ourselves  the  office 
of  secretary.  The  conceits  were  mostly  good,  and  the  verses 
tolerable.  Hers,  especially,  had  a touch  of  nature  about  them 
which  distinguished  them  from  all  others.  Without  being 


14 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAXD. 


really  clever,  they  had  a happy  turn  : they  were  playful  without 
being  bitter,  and  showed  good  will  towards  every  one.  The 
father  laughed  heartily  ; and  his  face  was  lit  up  with  joy  when 
his  daughter’s  verses  were  declared  to  be  the  best,  after 
mine.  Our  unriualified  approbation  highl}'  delighted  liini. 
We  praised,  as  men  praise  unexpected  merit,  — as  we  praise 
an  author  who  has  bribed  us.  At  last  out  came  my  lot,  and 
cliance  had  taken  honorable  care  of  me.  It  was  no  less  a 
personage  than  the  Empress  of  all  the  Russias,  who  was 
drawn  to  be  my  partner  for  life.  The  company  laughed 
heartily  at  the  match  ; and  Eleonora  maintained  that  the 
whole  company  must  try  their  best  to  do  honor  to  so  eminent 
a consort.  All  began  to  tiy ; a few  pens  were  bitten  to 
pieces.  »She  was  ready  first,  but  wished  to  read  last.  The 
mother  and  the  aunt  could  make  nothing  of  the  subject ; and 
although  the  father  was  rather  matter-of-fact,  Ferdinand 
somewhat  humorous,  and  the  aunts  rathei’  reserved,  still, 
through  all,  you  could  see  friendship  and  good  will.  At 
last  it  came  to  her  turn.  She  drew  a deep  breath,  her 
ease  and  cheerfulness  left  her : she  did  not  read,  but  rather 
lisped  it  out,  and  laid  it  before  me  to  read  it  to  the  rest.  I 
was  astonished,  amazed.  Thus  does  the  bud  of  love  open  in 
beaut}'  and  modesty.  I felt  as  if  a whole  spring  had  showered 
upon  me  all  its  flowers  at  once.  Fivery  one  was  silent.  Fer- 
dinand lost  not  his  presence  of  mind.  ‘■Beautiful!”  he 
exclaimed,  “ very  beautiful ! He  deserves  the  poem  as  little 
as  an  empire.”  — “If  only  we  have  rightly  understood  it,” 
said  the  father.  The  rest  requested  I would  read  it  once 
more.  My  eyes  had  hitherto  been  fixed  on  the  precious 
words  : a shudder  ran  through  me  from  head  to  foot.  Ferdi- 
nand, who  saw  my  perplexity,  took  the  paper  up,  and  read 
it.  She  scarcely  allowed  him  to  finish  before  she  drew  out  the 
lots  for  another  pair.  The  game  was  not  kept  up  long  after 
this,  and  refreshments  were  brought  in. 

Shall  I,  or  shall  I not?  Is  it  right  of  me  to  hide  in  silence 
any  thing  from  him  to  whom  I tell  so  much,  nay.  all?  Shall 
I keep  back  from  you  a great  matter,  when  I yet  weary  you 
with  so  many  trifles  which  assuredly  no  one  would  ever  read 
but  you  who  have  taken  so  wonderful  a liking  for  me?  or 
shall  I keep  back  any  thing  from  you.  because  it  might,  per- 
h.aps,  give  you  a false,  not  to  say  an  ill,  opinion  of  me?  No: 
do  you  know  me  better  than  I even  know  myself.  If  I should 
ilo  any  thing  which  you  do  uot  believe  possible  I could  do,  you 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


15 


will  amend  it : if  I shonkl  do  any  thing  deserving  of  censure, 
you  will  not  spare  me ; you  will  lead  me  and  guide  me 
whenever  my  peculiarities  entice  me  off  the  right  road. 

My  joy,  ray  rapture,  at  works  of  art  when  they  are  true, 
when  they  are  immediate  and  speaking  expressions  of  Nature, 
afford  the  greatest  delight  to  every  collector,  to  every  dilet- 
tante. Those,  indeed,  who  call  themselves  connoisseurs,  are 
uot  always  of  my  opinion  ; but  I care  nothing  for  their  con- 
noisseurship  when  I am  happy.  Does  not  living  nature  vividly 
impress  itself  on  my  sense  of  vision?  Do  uot  its  images 
remain  fixed  in  my  brain  ? Do  not  they  there  grow  in  beauty, 
delighting  to  compare  themselves,  iu  turn,  with  the  images 
of  art  wdiich  the  mind  of  others  has  also  embellished  and 
beautified?  I confess  to  j^ou  that  my  fondness  for  Nature 
arises  from  the  fact  of  my  always  seeing  her  so  beautiful, 
so  lovely,  so  brilliant,  so  ravishing,  that  the  sirailation  of  the 
artist,  even  his  imperfect  imitation,  transports  me  almost  as 
much  as  if  it  were  a perfect  type.  It  is,  however,  only  such 
works  of  art  as  bespeak  genius  and  feeling,  that  have  any 
charms  for  me.  Those  cold  imitations  which  confine  them- 
selves to  the  narrow  circle  of  a certain  meagre  mannerism, 
of  mere  painstaking  diligence,  are  to  me  utterly  intolerable. 
You  see,  therefore,  that  my  delight  and  taste  cannot  well  be 
riveted  by  a work  of  art,  unless  it  imitates  such  oljjects  of 
nature  as  are  well  known  to  me  ; so  that  I am  able  to  test  the 
imitation  by  my  own  experience  of  the  originals.  Land- 
scape, with  all  that  lives  and  moves  therein  ; flowers  and 
fruit-trees  ; Gothic  churches  ; a portrait  taken  directly  from 
Nature,  — all  this  I can  recognize,  feel,  and,  if  you  like,  judge 

of.  Honest  W amused  himself  with  this  trait  of  my 

character,  and,  iu  such  a way  that  I could  uot  be  offended, 
often  made  merry  with  it  at  my  expense.  He  sees  much 
farther  iu  this  matter  than  I,  and  I shall  always  prefer  that 
people  should  laugh  at  me  while  they  instruct  than  that  they 
should  praise  without  benefiting  me.  He  had  noticed  what 
things  I was  most  immediately  pleased  with,  and,  after  a 
short  acquaintance,  did  not  hesitate  to  avow,  that,  in  the 
objects  that  so  transported  me,  there  might  be  much  that  was 
truly  estimable,  and  which  time  alone  would  enable  me  to 
distinguish. 

But  I turn  from  this  subject,  and  must  now,  however  cir- 
cuitously, come  to  the  matter,  which,  though  reluctantly,  I 
cannot  but  confide  to  you.  I can  see  you  iu  your  room,  in 
your  little  garden,  where,  over  a pipe  of  tobacco,  you  will 


16 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


probably  break  the  seal,  and  read  this  letter.  Can  your 
thoughts  follow  me  into  this  free  and  motley  world?  Will 
the  circumstances  and  true  state  of  the  case  become  clear  to 
your  imagination?  And  will  you  be  as  indulgent  towards 
your  absent  friend  as  I have  often  found  you  when  present? 

AVheu  my  artistic  friend  became  better  acquainted  with 
me,  and  judged  me  worthy  of  being  gradually  introduced  to 
better  pieces  of  art,  he  one  dajq  not  without  a most  mysteri- 
ous look,  took  me  to  a case,  which,  being  opened,  displayed  | 
a life-size  Danae  receiving  in  her  lap  the  golden  shower.  I | 
was  amazed  at  the  splendor  of  the  limbs,  the  magnificence  ! 
of  the  posture  and  arrangement,  the  intense  tenderness  and  ' 
tlie  intellectuality  of  the  sensual  object ; and  yet  I did  but 
stand  before  it  in  silent  contemplation.  It  did  not  excite 
in  me  that  rapture,  that  delight,  that  inexpressible  pleasure. 

My  friend,  who  went  on  descanting  upon  the  merits  of  the 
picture,  was  too  full  of  his  own  enthusiasm  to  notice  my 
coldness,  and  delighted  to  have  an  opportuniW  of  pointing 
out  to  me  in  this  painting  the  distinctive  excellences  of  the 
Italian  school. 

But  the  sight  of  this  picture  has  not  made  me  happy : it 
has  made  me  uneasy.  AVhat ! said  I to  myself,  — in  what  a 
strange  case  do  we  civilized  men  find  ourselves,  with  our 
many  conventional  restraints  ! A moss}’  rock,  a waterfall, 
rivets  my  eye  so  long  that  I can  tell  every  thing  about  it,  — 
its  heights,  its  cavities,  its  lights  and  shades,  its  hues,  its 
blending  tints  and  reflections  : all  is  distinctly  present  to 
m3’  mind,  and,  whenever  I please,  comes  vividl}'  before  me 
in  a most  happ}’  imitation.  But  of  that  masterpiece  of 
Nature,  the  human  frame,  of  the  order  and  svmmetiy  of 
the  limbs, — of  all  this  I have  but  a very  general  notion, 
which,  in  fact,  is  no  notion  at  all.  M3’  imagination  presents 
to  me  any  thing  but  a vivid  image  of  this  glorious  structure  ; 
and,  when  art  presents  an  imitation  of  it  to  mv  eve,  it 
awakens  in  me  no  sensation,  and  I am  unable  to  judge  of  the 
merits  of  the  picture.  No,  I will  remain  no  longer  in  this 
state  of  stupidit3’.  I will  stamp  on  m3’  mind  the  shape  of 
man,  as  well  as  that  of  a cluster  of  grapes,  or  of  a peach- 
tree. 

I induced  Ferdinand  to  bathe  in  the  lake.  AA'hat  a glorious 
shape  my  friend  has  ! How  dul3’  proportioned  all  his  limbs 
are  ! what  fulness  of  form  ! what  splendor  of  youth  ! AVhat 
a gain  to  have  enriehed  my  imagination  with  this  perfect 
model  of  manhood ! Now  I can  people  the  woods,  the 


LETTERS  FROM  SVVTTZERLAJN^D. 


17 


meadow,  and  the  hills,  with  similar  fine  forms.  I can  see 
him  as  Adonis  chasing  the  boar,  or  as  Narcissus  contemplate 
ing  himself  in  the  mirror  of  the  spring. 

But  alas ! my  imagination  cannot  furnish  as  yet  a Venus 
holding  him  from  the  chase,  a Venus  bewailing  his  death,  or 
a Ijeautiful  Echo  casting  one  sad  look  more  on  the  cold  corpse 
of  the  youth  before  she  vanishes  forever.  I have  therefore 
resolved,  cost  what  it  will,  to  see  a female  form  in  the  state 
in  which  I have  seen  my  friend. 

When,  therefore,  we  reached  Geneva,  I made  arrangements, 
in  the  character  of  an  artist,  to  complete  my  studies  of  the 
nude  figure,  and  to-morrow  evening  my  wish  is  to  bo 
gratified. 

I cannot  avoid  going  to-day  with  Ferdinand  to  a grand 
party.  It  will  form  an  excellent  foil  to  the  studies  of  this 
evening.  Well  enough  do  I know  those  formal  parties,  where 
the  old  women  require  you  to  play  at  cards  with  them,  and  the 
young  ones  to  ogle  with  them ; where  you  must  listen  to 
the  learned,  pay  respect  to  the  parson,  and  give  wa}"  to  the 
noble  ; where  the  numerous  lights  show  you  scarcely  one  tol- 
erable form,  and  that  one  hidden  and  buried  beneath  some 
barbarous  load  of  frippery.  I shall  have  to  speak  French, 
too,  — a foreign  tongue,  — the  use  of  which  always  makes  a 
man  appear  silly,  whatever  he  may  think  of  himself,  since  the 
best  he  can  express  in  it  is  nothing  but  commonplace  and 
the  most  obvious  of  remarks,  and  that,  too,  only  with  stam- 
mering and  hesitating  lips.  For  what  is  it  that  distinguishes 
the  blockhead  from  the  really  clever  man,  but  the  peculiar 
quickness  and  vividness  with  which  the  latter  discerns  the 
nicer  shades  and  proprieties  of  all  that  comes  before  him, 
and  expresses  himself  thereon  with  facility?  whereas  the 
former  (just  as  we  all  do  with  a foreign  language)  is  forced 
on  every  occasion  to  have  recourse  to  some  ready-found  and 
conversational  phrase  or  other.  To-day  I will  calmly  put  up 
with  the  sorry  entertainment,  in  expectation  of  the  rare  scene 
of  Nature  which  awaits  me. 

My  adventure  is  over.  It  has  fully  equalled  my  expecta- 
tion, nay,  surpassed  it;  and  yet  I know  not  whether  to 
congratulate  or  to  blame  myself  on  account  of  it. 


18 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLA2JD 


PART  THE  SECOND. 

Munster,  Oct.  3,  1797. 

From  Basle  yon  will  receive  a packet  containing  an  account 
of  my  travels  up  to  that  point ; for  we  are  now  continuing  in 
good  earnest  our  tours  through  Switzerland.  On  our  route 
to  Biel  we  rode  up  the  beautiful  valley  of  the  Birsch,  and  at 
last  reached  the  pass  which  leads  to  this  place. 

Among  the  ridges  of  the  broad  and  lofty  range  of  moun- 
tains, the  little  stream  of  the  Bh’sch  found,  of  old,  a channel 
for  itself.  Necessity  soon  after  may  have  driven  men  to  | 
clamber  wearily  and  painfully  through  its  gorges.  The  j 
Romans,  in  their  time,  enlarged  the  track ; and  now  you  may 
travel  through  it  with  perfect  ease.  The  stream,  dashing 
over  erags  and  rocks,  and  the  road,  run  side  by  side  ; and, 
except  at  a few  points,  these  make  up  the  whole  breadth  of 
the  pass,  which  is  hemmed  in  b}’  rocks,  the  top  of  which  is 
easily  reached  by  the  eye.  Behind  them  the  mountain  chain 
rose  with  a slight  inclination : the  summits,  however,  were 
veiled  by  a mist. 

Here  walls  of  rock  rise  precipitously  one  above  another, 
there  immense  strata  run  obliquely  dowu  to  the  river  and  the 
road;  here,  again,  broad  masses  lie  piled  one  over  another, 
while  close  beside  stands  a line  of  sharp-pointed  crags.  "Wide 
clefts  run  yawning  upwards  ; and  blocks,  of  the  size  of  a wall, 
have  detached  themselves  from  the  rest  of  the  stony  mass. 
Some  fragments  of  the  rock  have  rolled  to  the  bottom : 
others  are  still  suspended,  and  by  their  position  alarm  you, 
as  also  likel}’  at  any  moment  to  come  toppling  down. 

Now  round,  now  pointed,  now  overgrown,  now  bare,  are 
the  tops  of  these  rocks,  among  and  high  above  which  some 
single  bald  summit  boldly  towers ; while  along  the  perpen- 
dicular cliffs,  and  among  the  hollows  below,  the  weather  has 
worn  mauj'  a deep  and  winding  cranny. 

The  passage  through  this  defile  raised  in  me  a grand  but 
calm  emotion.  The  sublime  produces  a beautiful  calmness 
in  the  soul,  which,  entireh'  possessed  by  it.  feels  as  great  as  it 
ever  can  feel.  How  glorious  is  such  a pure  feeling  when  it 
rises  to  the  veiw  highest,  without  overflowing ! My  eye  and 
m}"  soul  were  bofh  able  to  take  in  the  objects  before  me ; 
and  as  I was  pre-occupied  by  nothing,  and  had  no  false  tastes 
to  counteract  their  impression,  they  had  on  me  their  full  and 
natural  effect.  "When  we  compare  such  a feeling  with  that 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


19 


I we  are  sensible  of  when  we  laboriously  harass  ourselves  with 
some  trifle,  and  strain  ever}'  nerve  to  gain  as  much  as  possible 
for  it,  and,  as  if  were,  to  patch  it  out,  striving  to  furnish 
Joy  and  aliment  to  the  mind  from  its  own  creation,  we  then 
feel  sensibly  what  a'  poor  expedient,  after  all,  the  latter  is. 

A young  man  whom  we  have  had  for  our  companion  from 
Basle  said  his  feelings  were  very  far  from  what  they  were 
on  his  first  visit,  and  gave  all  the  honor  to  novelty.  I, 
however,  would  say,  when  we  see  such  objects  as  thefee  for 
the  first  time,  the  unaccustomed  soul  has  to  expand  itself ; 
and  this  gives  rise  to  a sort  of  painful  joy,  — an  overflowing 
of  emotion,  which  agitates  the  mind,  and  draws  from  us  the 
most  delicious  tears.  By  this  operation,  the  soul,  without 
knowing  it,  becomes  greater  in  itself,  and  is,  of  course,  not 
capable  of  ever  feeling  again  such  a sensation  ; and  man 
thinks,  in  consequence,  that  he  has  lost  something,  whereas 
in  fact  he  has  gained.  What  he  loses  in  delight,  he  gains  in 
in^rd  riches.  If  only  destiny  had  bidden  me  to  dwell  in 
the  midst  of  some  grand  scenery,  then  would  I every  morn- 
ing have  imbibed  greatness  from  its  grandeur ; as,  from  a 
lonely  valley,  I would  extract  patience  and  repose. 

After  reaching  the  end  of  the  gorge,  I alighted,  and  went 
back  alone  through  a part  of  the  valley.  I thus  called  forth 
another  profound  feeling,  — one  by  which  the  attentive  mind 
may  expand  its  joys  to  a high  degree.  One  guesses  in  the 
dark  about  the  origin  and  existence  of  these  singular  forms. 
It  may  have  happened  when  and  how  it  may  : these  masses 
must,  according  to  the  laws  of  gravity  and  aflinity,  have 
been  formed  grandly  and  simply  by  aggregation.  Whatever 
revolutions  may  subsequently  have  upheaved,  rent,  and 
divided  them,  the  latter  were  only  partial  convulsions  ; and 
even  the  idea  of  such  mighty  commotions  gives  one  a deep 
feeling  of  the  eternal  stability  of  the  masses.  Time,  too, 
bound  by  the  everlasting  law,  has  had  here  greater,  here 
less,  effect  upon  them. 

Internally  their  color  appears  to  be  yellowish.  The  air, 
however,  and  the  weather,  have  changed  the  surface  into  a 
bluish-gray  ; so  that  the  original  color  is  only  visible  here  and 
there  in  streaks  and  in  the  fresh  cracks.  The  stone  itself 
slowly  crumbles  beneath  the  influence  of  the  weather,  be- 
coming rounded  at  the  edges  as  the  softer  flakes  wear  away. 
In  this  manner  have  been  formed  hollows  and  cavities  grace- 
fully shelving  off,  which,  when  they  have  sharp  slanting  and 
, pointed  edges,  present  a singular  appearance. 


20 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


Vegetation  maintains  its  rights  on  everj^  ledge,  on  every 
flat  surface  ; for  in  every  fissure  the  pines  strike  root,  and 
the  mosses  and  plants  spread  themselves  over  the  rocks. 
One  feels  deeply  convinced  that  there  is  nothing  accidental ; 
that  here  there  is  working  an  eternal  law,  which,  however 
slowly,  yet  surely  governs  the  universe  ; that  there  is  nothing 
here  from  the  hand  of  man  but  the  convenient  road  by  means 
of  wdiich  this  singular  region  is  traversed. 


Geneva,  Oct.  21, 1779. 

The  great  mountain  range,  which,  running  from  Basle  to 
Geneva,  divides  Switzerland  from  France,  is,  as  you  are 
aware,  named  the  Jura.  Its  principal  heights  run  by  Lau- 
sanne, and  reach  as  far  as  Rolle  and  N3’on.  In  the  midst  of 
this  summit  ridge.  Nature  has  cut  out  — I might  almost  say 
washed  out  — a remarkable  valley  ; for  on  the  tops  of  all 
these  limestone  rocks  the  operation  of  the  primal  waters  is 
manifest.  It  is  called  La  Vallee  de  Joux,  which  means  the 
Valley  of  the  Rock,  since  Joux,  in  the  local  dialect,  signifies 
a rock.  Before  I proceed  with  the  further  description  of  our  ■ 
journey,  T will  give  jmu  a brief  geographical  account  of  its 
situation.  Lengthwise  it  stretches,  like  the  mountain  range 
itself,  almost  directly  from  south  to  north,  and  is  locked  in  i 
on  the  one  side  by  Sept  Moncels,  and  on  the  other  by  Dent 
de  Vaulion,  which,  after  the  Dole,  is  the  highest  peak  of  the 
Jura.  Its  length,  according  to  the  statement  of  the  neigli-  ■ 
borhood,  is  nine  short  leagues,  but,  according  to  our  rough  ' 
reckoning  as  we  rode  through  it,  six  good  leagues.  The 
mountainous  ridge  which  bounds  it  lengthwise  on  the  north, 
and  is  also  visible  from  the  flat  lands,  is  called  the  Black 
Mountain  (Le  Noir  Mont).  Towards  the  west,  the  Risou 
rises  graduall}',  and  slopes  away  towards  Frauche  Comte. 
France  and  Berne  divide  the  valley  pretty  evenly  between  } 
them  ; the  former  claiming  the  upper  and  inferior  half,  and  t 
the  latter  possessing  the  lower  and  better  portion,  which  is 
properly  called  La  Vallee  du  Lac  de  Joux.  Quite  at  the  ! 
upper  part  of  the  valley,  and  at  the  foot  of  Sept  Moncels,  ; 
lies  the  Lac  des  Rousses,  which  has  no  single  visible  origin, 
but  gathers  its  waters  from  the  numerous  springs  which  here 
gush  out  of  the  soil,  and  from  the  little  brooks  which  run 
into  the  lake  from  all  sides.  Out  of  it  flows  the  Orbe.  which, 
after  running  through  the  whole  of  the  French  and  a great 
portion  of  the  Bernese  teixitoiw,  forms,  lower  down  ami 
towards  the  Dent  de  Vaulion,  the  Lac  de  Joux,  which  falis  i 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


21 


on  one  side  into  a smaller  lake,  the  waters  of  which  have 
some  subterraneous  outlet.  The  breadth  of  the  valley 
varies  : above,  near  the  Lac  des  Rousses,  it  is  nearlj-  half  a 
league,  then  it  closes  in  to  expand  again  presently,  and  to 
reach  its  greatest  breadth,  which  is  nearly  a league  and 
a half.  So  much  to  enable  you  better  to  understand  what 
follows.  While  yon  read  it,  however,  I would  beg  you  now 
and  then  to  cast  a glance  upon  your  map,  althougn,  so  far  as 
concerns  this  country,  I have  found  them  all  to  lie  incorrect. 

Oct.  24. — In  company  with  a captain  and  an  upper  ranger 
of  the  forests  in  these  parts,  we  rode,  first  of  all,  up  Mont, 
a little  scattered  village  which  much  more  correctly  might  be 
called  a line  of  husbandmen’s  and  vine-dressers’  cottages. 
The  weather  was  extremely  clear.  When  we  turned  to  look 
behind  us,  we  had  a view  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  the  moun- 
tains of  Savoy  and  Valais,  and  could  just  catch  Lausanne, 
and  also,  through  a.  light  mist,  the  country  round  Geneva. 
Mont  Blanc,  which  towers  above  all  the  mountains  of 
Faucigui,  stood  out  more  and  more  distinctly.  It  was  a 
brilliant  sunset ; and  the  view  was  so  grand,  that  no  human 
eye  was  equal  to  it.  The  moon  rose  almost  at  the  full  as 
we  got  continually  higher.  Through  large  pine-forests  we 
continued  to  ascend  the  Jura,  and  saw  the  lake  in  a mist, 
and  in  it  the  reflection  of  the  moon.  It  became  lighter  and 
lighter.  The  road  is  a well-made  causeway,  though  it  was 
laid  down  merely  for  the  sake  of  facilitating  the  transport  of 
the  timber  to  the  plains  below.  We  had  been  ascending  for 
full  three  leagues,  before  the  road  began  gently  to  descend. 
We  thought  we  saw  below  us  a vast  lake,  for  a thick  mist 
filled  the  whole  valley  which  we  overlooked.  Presently  we 
came  nearer  to  the  mist,  and  observed  a white  bow,  which 
the  moon  formed  in  it,  and  were  soon  entirely  enveloped  in  the 
fog.  The  company  of  the  captain  procured  us  lodgings  in  a 
house  where  strangers  were  not  usually  entertained.  In  its 
internal  arrangement,  it  differed  in  nothing  from  usual  build- 
ings of  the  same  kind,  except  that  the  great  room  in  the 
centre  was  at  once  the  kitchen,  the  anteroom,  and  general 
gathering-place  of  the  family  ; and  from  it  you  entered  at 
once  into  the  sleeping-rooms,  which  were  either  on  the  same 
floor  with  it,  or  had  to  be  approached  by  steps.  On  the  one 
side  was  the  lire,  which  was  burning  on  the  ground  on  some 
stone  slabs ; while  a chimney,  built  durabl}^  and  neatly  of 
planks,  received  and  carried  off  the  smoke.  In  the  corner 
were  the  doors  of  the  naveu.  All  the  rest  of  the  floor  was  of 


22 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


wood,  with  the  exception  of  a small  piece  near  the  window, 
around  the  sink,  which  was  paved.  Moreover,  all  aronnd 
and  overhead,  on  the  beams,  a multitude  of  domestic  articles 
and  utensils  were  arranged  in  beautiful  order,  and  all  kept 
nice  and  clean. 

Oct.  25. — This  morning  the  weather  was  cold  but  clear, 
the  meadows  covered  with  hoar-frost,  and  here  and  there 
light  clouds  were  floating  in  the  air.  We  could  pretty  nearly 
survey  the  whole  of  the  lower  valley,  our  house  being  situ- 
ated at  the  foot  of  the  eastern  side  of  Noir  Mont.  About 
eight  we  set  off,  and,  in  order  to  enjoy  the  sun  fully,  pro- 
ceeded on  the  western  side.  The  part  of  the  valley  we  now 
traversed  was  divided  into  meadows,  which  towards  the 
lake  were  rather  swampy.  The  inhabitants  either  dwell  in 
detached  houses  built  by  the  side  of  their  farms,  or  else  have 
gathered  closer  together  in  little  villages,  which  bear  simple 
names  derived  from  their  several  sites.  The  first  of  those 
that  we  passed  through  was  called  “•  Le  Sentier.”  AVe  saw 
at  a distance  the  Dent  de  Vauliou  peeping  out  over  a mist 
which  rested  on  the  lake.  The  valle}’  grew  broader ; but  our 
road  now  lay  behind  a ridge  of  rock  which  shut  out  our  view 
of  the  lake,  and  then  through  another  village,  called  “ Le 
Lieu.”  The  mist  arose  and  fell  off,  highly  variegated  by  the 
sun.  Close  hereto  is  a small  lake,  which  apparently  has 
neither  inlet  nor  outlet  to  its  waters.  The  weather  cleared 
up  completely  as  we  came  to  the  foot  of  Dent  de  A'aulion, 
and  reached  the  northern  extremity  of  the  great  lake,  which, 
as  it  turns  westward,  empties  itself  into  a smaller  by  a dam 
beneath  the  bridge.  The  village  just  above  is  called  *•  Le 
Pont.”  The  situation  of  the  smaller  lake  is  what  you  may 
easil}'  conceive  as  being  in  a peculiar  little  valley,  which  may 
be  called  pretty.  At  the  western  extremity  there  is  a sin- 
gular mill  built  in  a ravine  of  the  rock,  which  the  smaller 
lake  used  formerlj^  to  fill.  At  present  it  is  dammed  out  of 
the  mill,  which  is  erected  in  the  hollow  below.  The  water  is 
conveyed  by  sluices  to  the  wheel,  from  which  it  falls  into 
crannies  of  the  rock,  and,  being  sucked  in  by  them,  does  not 
show  itself  again  till  it  reaches  A'alorbe,  which  is  a full 
league  off,  where  it  again  bears  the  name  of  the  “ Orbe.” 
The^e  outlets  {entonnoirs)  require  to  be  kept  clear:  otherwise 
the  water  would  rise,  and  again  fill  the  ravine,  and  overflow 
the  mill,  as  it  has  often  done  already.  AVe  saw  the  people 
hard  at  work  removing  the  worn  pieces  of  the  limestone,  and 
replacing  them  by  others. 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


23 


We  rode  back  again  over  the  bridge,  towards  Le  Pont, 
and  took  a guide  for  the  Dent  dii  Vaulion.  In  ascending  it 
we  now  had  the  great  lake  directly  behind  us.  To  the 
east  its  boundary  is  the  Noir  Mont,  behind  which  the  bald 
peak  of  the  Dole  rises  up : to  the  west  it  is  shut  in  by  the 
mountain  ridge,  which,  on  the  side  of  the  lake,  is  perfectly 
bare.  The  sun  felt  hot : it  was  between  eleven  and  twelve 
o’clock.  By  degrees  we  gained  a sight  of  the  whole  valley, 
and  were  able  to  discern  in  the  distance  the  Lac  des 
Kousses,  and  then,  stretching  to  our  feet,  the  district  we 
had  just  ridden  through,  and  the  road  which  remained  for 
our  return.  During  the  ascent  my  guide  discoursed  of  the 
whole  range  of  the  country  and  the  lordships,  which,  he 
said,  it  was  possible  to  distinguish  from  the  peak.  In  the 
midst  of  such  talk  we  reached  the  summit.  But  a veiy 
different  spectacle  was  prepared  for  us.  Under  a bright 
and  clear  sky  nothing  was  visible  but  the  high  mountain 
chain.  All  the  lower  regions  were  covered  with  a white  sea 
of  cloudy  mist,  which  stretched  from  Geneva  northwards, 
along  the  horizon,  and  glittered  brilliantly  in  the  sunshine. 
Out  of  it  rose,  to  the  east,  the  whole  line  of  snow  and  ice 
capped  mountains,  acknowledging  no  distinction  of  names 
of  either  the  princes  or  peoples  who  fancied  they  were  own- 
ers of  them,  and  owning  subjection  only  to  one  Lord,  and  to 
the  glance  of  the  sun,  which  was  tinging  them  with  a beau- 
tiful red.  Mont  Blanc,  right  opposite  to  us,  seemed  the 
highest ; next  to  it  were  the  ice-crowned  summits  of  Valais 
and  Oberland  ; and  lastly  came  the  lower  mountains  of  the 
canton  of  Berne.  Towards  the  west,  the  sea  of  mist,  which 
was  unconfined  to  one  spot ; on  the  left,  in  the  remotest 
distance,  appeared  the  mountains  of  Solothurn  ; somewhat 
nearer,  those  of  Neufchatel ; and  right  before  us,  some  of 
the  lower  heights  of  the  Jura.  Just  below,  lay  some  of  the 
masses  of  the  Vaulion,  to  which  belongs  the  Dent  (tooth), 
which  takes  from  it  its  name.  To  the  west,  Franche-Comte, 
with  its  flat,  outstretched,  and  wood-covered  hills,  shut  in 
the  whole  horizon.  In  the  distance,  towards  the  north-west, 
one  single  mass  stood  out  distinct  from  all  the  rest.  Straight 
before  us,  however,  was  a beautiful  object.  This  was  the 
peak  which  gives  this  summit  the  name  of  a tooth.  It  de- 
scends precipitously,  or  rather  with  a slight  curve,  inwards  ; 
and  in  the  bottom  it  is  succeeded  by  a small  valley  of  pine- 
trees,  with  beautiful  grassy  patches  here  and  there,  while 
right  beyond  it  lies  the  valley  of  the  Orbe(Val-orbe) , where 


24 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


you  see  this  stream  coming  out  of  the  rock,  and  can  trace, 
in  thought,  its  route  backwards  to  the  smaller  lake.  The 
little  town  of  Valorbe  also  lies  in  this  valley.  Most  reluc- 
tantly we  quitted  the  spot.  A delay  of  a few  hours  longer 
(for  the  mist  generally  disperses  in  about  that  time)  would 
have  enabled  us  to  distinguish  the  low  lands  with  the  lake  ; 
but,  in  order  that  our  enjoyment  should  be  perfect,  we 
must  always  have  something  behind  still  to  be  wished.  As 
we  descended,  we  had  the  whole  valley  Ij’ing  perfectly  dis- 
tinct before  us.  At  Le  Pont  we  again  mounted  our  horses, 
and  rode  to  the  east  side  of  the  lake,  and  passed  through 
L’Abbaye  de  Joux,  which  at  present  is  a village,  but  once  i 
was  a settlement  of  monks,  to  whom  the  whole  valley  be-  1 
longed.  Towards  four  we  reached  our  auberge,  and  found 
our  meal  ready,  of  which  we  were  assured  by  our  hostess 
that  at  twelve  o’clock  it  would  have  been  good  eating,  and 
which,  overdone  as  it  was,  tasted  excellently. 

Let  me  now  add  a few  particulars  just  as  they  were  told 
me.  As  I mentioned  just  now,  the  valley  belonged  for- 
merly to  the  monks,  who,  having  divided  it  again  to  feuda- 
tories, were,  with  the  rest,  ejected  at  the  Reformation.  At 
present  it  belongs  to  the  canton  of  Berne  ; and  the  moun- 
tains around  are  the  timber-stores  of  the  Pays  de  Vaud. 
Most  of  the  timber  is  private  property,  and  is  cut  up  under 
supervision,  and  then  carried  down  into  the  plains.  The 
planks  are  also  made  here  into  deal  utensils  of  all  kinds,  and 
pails,  tubs,  and  similar  articles  manufactured. 

The  people  are  civil  and  well  disposed.  Besides  their 
trade  in  wood,  they  also  breed  cattle.  Their  beasts  are  of  a 
small  size.  The  cheese  they  make  is  excellent.  They  are 
very  industrious,  and  a clod  of  earth  is  with  them  a great 
treasure.  We  saw  one  man,  with  a horse  and  cart,  carefully 
collecting  the  earth  which  had  been  thrown  up  out  of  a 
ditch,  and  carrying  it  to  some  hollow  places  in  the  same 
Held.  They  lay  the  stones  carefully  together,  and  make 
little  heaps  of  them.  There  are  here  many  stone-polishers, 
who  work  for  the  Genevese  and  other  tradesmen  ; and  this 
business  furnishes  occupation  for  many  women  and  children. 
The  houses  are  neat,  but  durable  ; the  form  and  internal 
arrangements  being  determined  by  the  locality,  and  the  wants 
of  the  inmates.  Before  every  house  there  is  a running 
stream,  and  everywhere  }’ou  see  signs  of  iudustiy.  activity, 
and  wealth.  But  above  all  things  is  the  highest  praise  due 
to  the  exeellent  roads,  whieh  in  this  remote  region,  as  also  in 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


25 


all  the  other  cantons,  are  kept  up  by  that  of  Berne.  A 
causeway  is  carried  all  round  the  valley,  not  unnecessarily 
broad,  but  in  excellent  repair;  so  that  the  inhabitants  can 
pursue  their  avocations  without  incouveuience,  and,  with 
their  small  horses  and  light  carts,  pass  easily  along.  The 
air  is  very  pure  and  salubrious. 

On  the  26th  of  October,  during  breakfast,  we  deliberated 
as  to  the  road  we  should  take  on  our  return.  As  we  heard 
that  the  Dole,  the  highest  summit  of  the  Jura,  lay  at  no 
great  distance  from  the  upper  end  of  the  valley,  and  as  the 
weather  promised  to  be  most  glorious,  so  that  we  might 
to-day  hope  to  enjoy  all  that  chance  denied  us  yesterday, 
we  finally  detennined  to  take  this  route.  We  loaded  a guide 
with  bread  and  cheese,  and  butter  aud  wine,  and  by  eight 
o’clock  mounted  our  horses.  Our  route  now  laj^  along  the 
upper  part  of  the  valley,  in  the  shade  of  Noir  Mont.  It  was 
extremely  cold,  and  there  had  been  a sharp  hoar-frost.  We 
had  still  a league  to  ride,  through  the  part  belonging  to  Berne, 
before  the  causeway  (which  there  terminates)  branches 
off  into  two  parts.  Through  a little  wood  of  pine-trees 
we  entered  the  French  territory.  Hex'e  the  scene  changed 
greatl}n  What  first  excited  our  attention  was  the  wretched 
roads.  The  soil  is  rather  stony : everywhere  you  see  great 
heaps  of  those  which  have  been  picked  off  the  fields.  Soon 
you  come  to  a part  which  is  very  marshy,  and  full  of  springs. 
The  woods  all  around  you  are  in  wretched  condition.  In 
all  the  houses  and  people  jmu  recognize,  I will  not  say  want, 
but  certainly  a hard  and  meagre  subsistence.  They  belong, 
almost  as  serfs,  to  the  canons  of  St.  Claude  : they  are  bound 
to  the  soil  {glehce  astricti),  aud  are  oppressed  with  imposts 
{sujets  a la  main-morte  at  au  droit  de  la  suite),  of  which 
we  will  hereafter  have  some  talk  together,  as  also  of  a late 
edict  of  the  king’s,  repealing  the  droit  de  la  suite,  and  invit- 
ing the  owners  aud  occupiers  to  redeem  the  main-morte  for 
a certain  compensation.  But  still  even  this  portion  of  the 
valley  is  well  cultivated.  The  people  love  their  country 
dearly  ; though  they  lead  a hard  life,  being  driven  occa- 
sionally to  steal  the  wood  from  the  Bernese,  aud  sell  it 
again  in  the  lowlands.  The  first  division  is  called  the  Bois 
d’Amant.  After  passing  through  it,  we  entered  the  parish 
of  Les  Rousses,  where  we  saw  before  us  the  little  Lake  des 
Rousses  and  Les  Sept  Moncels,  — seven  small  hills  of  differ- 
ent shapes,  but  all  connected  together,  which  form  the  south- 
ern limit  of  the  valley.  We  soon  came  upon  the  new  road 


26 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


which  runs  from  the  Pays  de  Vaud  to  Paris.  We  kept  to 
this  for  a mile  downwards,  and  now  left  entirely  the  valley. 
The  bare  summit  of  the  Dole  was  before  us.  W'’e  alighted  ' 
from  our  horses,  and  sent  them  on  by  the  road  towards  f 

St.  Cergue,  while  we  ascended  the  Dole.  It  was  near  noon.  ' 

The  sun  felt  hot,  but  a cool  south  wind  came  now  and  then  to  ' 
refresh  us.  When  we  looked  round  for  a halting-place,  we 
had  behind  us  Les  Sept  Moncels,  we  could  still  see  a part  of 
the  Lac  des  Rousses,  and  around  it  the  scattered  houses  of  the 
parish.  The  rest  of  the  valley  was  hidden  from  our  cj'e  by 
the  Noir  Mont,  above  which  we  again  saw  our  yesterday’s 
view  of  Franche-Comt4,  and  nearer  at  hand,  southwards,  the 
last  summits  and  valleys  of  the  Jura.  We  carefulW  avoided 
taking  advantage  of  a little  peep  in  the  hill,  which  Avoiild 
have  given  us  a glimpse  of  the  country,  for  the  sake  of 
which,  in  reality,  our  ascent  was  undertaken.  I was  in  some 
anxiety  about  the  mist : however,  from  the  aspect  of  the 
sky  above,  I drew  a favorable  omen.  At  last  we  stood  on 
the  highest  summit,  and  saw  with  the  greatest  delight  that 
to-day  we  were  indulged  with  all  that  jmsterday  had  been 
denied  us.  The  whole  of  the  Pays  de  Vaux  and  de  Gex  lay 
like  a plan  before  us ; all  the  different  holdings  divided  off 
with  green  hedges,  like  the  beds  of  a parterre.  We  were  so 
high,  that  the  rising  and  sinking  of  the  landscape  before  us 
were  unnoticeable.  Villages,  little  towns,  country-houses, 
vine-covered  hills,  and  higher  up  still,  where  the  forests 
and  Alps  begin,  the  cow-sheds  (mostly  painted  wl^ite,  or 
some  other  light  color) , — all  glittered  in  the  sunshine.  The 
mist  had  already  rolled  off  from  Lake  Leman.  We  saw  the 
nearest  part  of  the  coast  on  our  side,  quite  clear : of  the  so- 
called  smaller  lake,  where  the  larger  lake  contracts  itself, 
and  turns  towards  Geneva,  which  was  right  opposite  to  us, 
we  had  a complete  view ; and  on  the  other  side,  the  country 
which  shuts  it  in  was  gradually  clearing.  But  nothing  could 
vie  with  the  view  of  the  mountains,  covered  with  snow  and 
glaciers.  We  sat  down  before  some  rocks,  to  shelter  us  from 
the  cold  wind,  with  the  sunshine  full  upon  us,  and  highly 
relished  our  little  meal.  We  kept  watching  the  mist,  which 
gradually  retired.  Each  one  discovered,  or  fancied  he  dis- 
covered, some  object  or  ocher.  One  by  one  we  distinctly 
saw  Lausanne,  surrounded  with  its  houses  and  gardens, 
then  Bevay  and  the  Castle  of  Chillon  ; the  mountains,  which 
shut  out  from  our  view  the  entrance  into  Valais,  and  ex- 
tended as  far  as  the  lake  ; from  thence  the  borders  of  Savoy, 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


27 


Evian,  Repaille,  and  Tonon,  with  a sprinkling  of  villages 
and  farrahonses  between  them.  At  last  Geneva  stood  clear 
from  the  mist ; but  beyond,  and  towards  the  south,  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Monte  Credo  and  Monte  Vauche,  it  still 
hung  immovable.  When  the  eye  turned  to  the  left,  it  caught 
sight  of  the  whole  of  the  lowlands  from  Lausanne,  as  far  as 
Solothurn,  covered  with  a light  halo.  The  nearer  mountains 
and  heights,  and  every  spot  that  had  a white  house  on  it, 
could  be  closely  distinguished.  The  guides  pointed  out  a 
glimmering,  which  they  said  was  the  castle  of  Chauvan,  which 
lies  to  the  left  of  the  Neuberger-See.  We  were  just  able  to 
guess  whereabouts  it  lay,  but  could  not  distinguish  it  through 
the  bluish  haze.  There  are  no  words  to  express  the  gran- 
deur and  beauty  of  this  view.  At  the  moment  every  one 
is  scarcely  conscious  of  what  he  sees : one  does  but  recall 
the  names  and  sites  of  well-known  cities  and  localities,  to 
rejoice  in  a vague  conjecture  that  he  recognizes  them  in 
certain  white  spots  which  strike  his  eye  in  the  prospect 
before  him. 

And  then  the  line  of  glittering  glaciers  was  continually 
drawing  the  eye  back  again  to  the  mountains.  The  sun 
made  his  way  towai’ds  the  west,  and  lighted  up  their  great 
flat  surfaces,  which  were  turned  towards  us.  How  beauti- 
fully before  them  rose  from  above  the  snow  the  variegated 
rows  of  black  rocks ! — teeth,  towers,  walls ; wild,  vast, 
inaccessible  vestibules  ! — and  seeming  to  stand  there  in  the 
free  air  in  the  first  purity  and  freshness  of  their  manifold 
variety.  Man  gives  up  at  once  all  pretensions  to  the  in- 
finite, while  he  here  feels  that  neither  with  thought  nor  vision 
is  he  equal  to  the  finite. 

Before  us  we  saw  a fruitful  and  populous  plain.  The 
spot  on  which  we  were  standing  was  a high,  bare  mountain 
rock,  which,  however,  produces  a sort  of  grass  as  food  for 
the  cattle,  which  are  here  a great  source  of  gain.  This  the 
conceited  lord  of  creation  may  yet  make  his  own ; but 
those  rocks  before  his  eyes  are  like  a train  of  holy  virgins, 
wliich  the  spirit  of  heaven  reserves  for  itself  alone  in  these  in- 
accessible regions.  We  tarried  a while,  tempting  each  other, 
in  turn,  to  try  and  discover  cities,  mountains,  and  regions, 
now  with  the  naked  ejm,  now  with  the  telescope,  and  did 
not  begin  to  descend  till  the  setting  sun  gave  permission 
to  the  mist  — his  own  parting  breath  — to  spread  itself  over 
the  lake. 

With  sunset  we  reached  the  ruins  of  the  fort  of  St.  Cergue- 


28 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


Even  when  we  got  down  in  the  valley,  our  eyes  were  still 
riveted  on  the  mountain  glaciers.  The  farthest  of  these, 
lying  on  our  left  in  Oberland,  seemed  almost  to  be  melting 
into  a light  fiery  vapor : those  still  nearer  stood  with  their 
sides  towards  us,  still  glowing  and  red  ; but  by  degrees  thej' 
became  white,  green,  and  grayish.  There  was  something 
melancholy  in  the  sight.  Like  a powerful  bod}^  over  which 
death  is  gradually  passing  from  the  extremities  to  the  heart, 
so  the  whole  range  gradually  paled  away  as  far  as  3Iout 
Blanc,  w'hose  ampler  bosom  was  still  covered  all  over  with  a 
deep  red  blush,  and  even  appeared  to  us  to  retain  a reddish 
tint  to  the  very  last, — just  as,  when  one  is  watching  the 
death  of  a dear  friend,  life  still  seems  to  linger,  and  it  is 
difficult  to  determine  the  very  moment  when  the  pulse  ceases 
to  beat. 

This  time,  also,  we  were  very  loath  to  depart.  We  found 
our  horses  in  St.  Cergue  ; and,  that  nothing  miglit  be  wanting 
to  our  enjoyment,  the  moon  rose,  and  lighted  us  to  Nyon. 
W^hile  on  the  wa}s  our  strained  and  excited  feelings  were 
graduallj'  calmed,  and  assumed  their  wonted  tone  ; so  that 
we  were  able,  with  keen  gratification,  to  enjoy  from  our  inn 
window  the  glorious  moonlight  which  was  spread  over  the 
lake. 

At  different  spots  of  our  travels,  so  much  was  said  of  the 
remarkable  character  of  the  glaciers  of  Savoy,  and  when  we 
reached  Geneva  we  were  told  it  was  becoming  more  and 
more  the  fashion  to  visit  them,  that  the  count  ^ was  seized 
with  a strange  desire  to  bend  our  course  in  that  direction, 
and  from  Geneva  to  cross  Cluse  and  Salenche,  and  enter  the 
Valley  of  Chamouni,  and,  after  contemplating  its  wonderful 
objects,  to  go  on  by  Valorsine  and  Trent  into  Valais.  This 
route,  however,  which  was  the  one  usually  pursued  b}'  trav- 
ellers, was  thought  dangerous  in  this  season  of  the  year.  A 
visit  was  therefore  paid  to  M.  de  Saussure  at  his  country- 
house,  and  his  advice  requested.  He  assured  us  that  we 
need  not  hesitate  to  take  that  route  : there  was  no  snow  .as 
yet  on  the  middle-sized  mountains  ; and  if  on  our  road  we 
were  attentive  to  the  signs  of  the  weather  and  the  advice  of 
the  eouutiy-people,  who  were  celdom  wrong  in  their  judg- 
ment, we  might  enter  upon  this  journey  with  perfect  safety. 
Here  is  the  copy  of  the  journal  of  a day’s  hard  travelling. 

1 The  Duke  Charles  Augustus  of  ‘W’’eimar,  who  travelled  under  the  title  of  Count 
of 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERT-AND. 


29 


Cltjse  in  Savoy,  Nov.  3,  1779. 

To-day,  on  departing  from  Geneva,  our  party  divided. 
The  count,  with  me  and  a huntsman,  took  the  route  to  Savoy. 
Friend  W.,  with  the  horses,  proceeded  through  the  Pays  de 
Vaud  for  Valais.  In  a light  four-wheeled  cabriolet  we  pro- 
ceeded first  of  all  to  visit  Hiiber  at  his  country-seat,  — a man 
out  of  whom  mind,  imagination,  and  imitative  tact  oozes  at 
every  pore,  one  of  the  very  few  thorough  men  we  have 
met  with.  He  saw  us  well  on  our  way  ; and  then  we  set  off 
with  the  lofty  snow-capped  mountains,  which  we  wished  to 
reach,  before  our  eyes.  From  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  the 
mountain-chains  verge  towards  each  other,  to  the  point  where 
Bonneville  lies,  halfway  between  the  Mole,  a considerable 
mountain,  and  the  Arve.  There  we  took  our  dinner.  Be- 
hind the  town  the  valley  closes  right  in.  Although  not  very 
broad,  it  has  the  Arve  flowing  gently  through  it,  and  is  on  the 
southern  side  well  cultivated  ; and  everywhere  the  soil  is  put 
to  some  profit.  From  the  early  morning,  we  had  been  in 
fear  of  its  raining,  some  time  at  least  before  night ; but  the 
clouds  gradually  quitted  the  mountains,  and  dispersed  into 
fleeces,  — a sign  which  has  more  than  once  in  our  experience 
proved  a favorable  omen.  The  air  was  as  warm  as  it  usu- 
ally is  in  the  beginning  of  September,  and  the  country  we 
travelled  through  beautiful ; many  of  the  trees  being  still 
green.  Most  of  them  had  assumed  a brownish-yellow  tint, 
but  only  a few  were  quite  bare.  The  crops  were  rich  and 
verdant.  The  mountains  caught  from  the  red  sunset  a 
rosy  hue,  blended  with  violet ; and  all  these  rich  tints  were 
combined  with  grand,  beautiful,  and  agreeable  forms  of  the 
landscape.  AVe  talked  over  much  that  was  good.  Towards 
five  we  came  towards  Cluse,  where  the  valley  closes,  and 
has  only  one  outlet,  through  which  the  Arve  issues  from  the 
mountains,  and  by  which,  also,  w'e  propose  to  enter* them  to- 
morrow. We  ascended  a lofty  eminence,  and  saw  beneath 
us  the  city,  partly  built  on  the  slightly  inclined  side  of  a 
rock,  but  partly  on  the  flat  portion  of  the  valley.  Our  eyes 
ranged  with  pleasure  over  the  vhlley  ; and,  sitting  on  the 
granite  rocks,  we  awaited  the  coming  of  night  in  calm  and 
varied  discourse.  Towards  seven,  as  we  descended,  it  was 
not  at  all  colder  than  it  is  usually  in  summer  about  nine. 
At  a miserable  inn  (where,  however,  the  people  were  ready 
aud  willing,  and  by  their  patois  afforded  us  much  amuse- 
ment) we  are  now  going,  about  ten  o’clock,  to  bed,  intend- 
ing to  set  out  early  to-morrow,  before  the  morning  shall  dawn. 


30 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


Salenche,  Nov.  4, 1779. 

Noon. 

Whilst  a dinner  is  being  prepared  by  very  willing  hands. 

I will  attempt  to  set  down  the  most  remarkable  incidents  of  [ 
our  yesterday’s  journey,  which  commenced  with  the  early  I 
morning.  With  break  of  day  we  set  out  on  foot  from  Cluse,  I 
taking  the  road  towards  Balme.  In  the  valley  the  air  was  r 
agreeably  fresh.  The  moon,  in  her  last  quarter,  rose  bright 
before  the  sun,  and  charmed  us  with  the  sight,  as  being  one 
which  we  do  not  often  see.  Single  light  vapors  rose  upwards 
from  all  the  chasms  in  the  rocks.  It  seemed  as  if  the  morn- 
ing air  were  awakening  the  young  spirits,  who  took  pleasure  ^ 
in  meeting  the  sun  with  expanded  bosoms,  and  gilding  them 
in  his  raj’s.  The  upper  heaven  was  perfectly  clear,  except 
wdiere  now  and  then  a single  cloudy  streak,  which  the  rising 
sun  lit  up,  swept  lightly  across  it.  Balme  is  a miserable  ' 
village,  not  far  from  the  spot  where  a rocky  gorge  runs  off 
from  the  road.  AYe  asked  the  people  to  guide  us  through  j 
the  cave  for  which  the  place  is  famous.  At  this  they  kept  j 
looking  at  one  another,  till  at  last  one  said  to  the  second,  ] 
“ Take  j'ou  the  ladder,  I will  carry  the  rope:  come,  gentle- 
men.” This  strange  invitation  did  not  deter  us  from  follow- 
ing them.  Our  line  of  descent  passed,  first  of  all,  among 
fallen  masses  of  limestone  rock,  which  b}-  the  course  of 
time  had  been  piled  up,  step  by  step,  in  front  of  the  pre- 
cipitous wall  of  rock,  and  were  now  overgrown  with  bushes 
of  hazel  and  beech.  Over  these  you  reach,  at  last,  the 
strata  of  the  rock  itself,  which  you  have  to  climb  up  slowly 
and  painfull}',  by  means  of  the  ladder  and  of  the  steps 
cut  into  the  rock,  and  by  help  of  branches  of  the  nut- 
trees  which  hung  over  head,  or  of  pieces  of  rope  tied  to 
them.  After  this  you  find  yourself,  to  }'Our  great  satisfac- 
tion, in  a kind  of  portal,  Avhich  has  been  worn  out  of  the 
rock  by  the  weather,  and  overlooks  the  valley  and  the  village 
below.  AYe  now  prepared  for  entering  the  cave.  — lightfd 
our  candles,  and  loaded  a pistol,  which  we  proposed  to  let 
off.  The  cave  is  a long  gallery,  mostly  level,  and  on  one 
strand  ; in  parts  broad  enough  for  two  men  to  walk  abreast, 
in  others  oul}'  passable  b}'  one  ; now  high  enough  to  walk 
upright,  then  obliging  you  to  stoop,  and  sometimes  even  to 
crawl  on  hands  and  feet.  Nearly  about  the  middle,  a cleft 
runs  upwards,  and  forms  a sort  of  a dome.  In  one  corner, 
another  goes  downwards.  AA'e  threw  several  stones  down  it, 
and  counted  slowly  from  seventeen  to  nineteen  before  they 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


31 


reached  the  bottom,  after  touching  the  sides  many  times,  but 
always  with  a different  echo.  On  the  walls  a stalactite  forms 
its  various  devices  : however,  it  is  only  damp  in  a very  few 
places,  and  forms,  for  the  most  part,  long  drops,  and  not 
those  rich  and  rare  shapes  which  are  so  remarkable  in  Bau- 
mann’s Cave.  We  penetrated  as  far  as  we  could  for  the 
w'ater,  and,  as  we  came  out,  let  off  our  pistol,  which  shook 
the  cave  with  a strong  but  dull  echo,  so  that  it  boomed  round 
us  like  a bell.  It  took  us  a good  quarter  of  an  hour  to  get 
out  again  ; and,  on  descending  the  rocks,  we  found  our  car- 
riage, and  drove  onwards.  We  saw  a beautiful  waterfall  in 
the  manner  of  the  Staubbach.  Neither  its  height  was  very 
great,  nor  its  volume  very  large,  and  yet  it  was  extremely 
interesting,  for  the  rocks  formed  around  it,  as  it  were,  a cir- 
cular niche,  in  which  its  waters  fell ; and  the  pieces  of  the 
limestone,  as  they  were  tumbled  one  over  another,  formed 
the  most  rare  and  unusual  groups. 

We  arrived  here  at  mid-day,  not  quite  hungrj^  enough  to 
relish  our  dinner,  which  consisted  of  warmed  fish,  cow-beef, 
and  very  stale  bread.  From  this  place  there  is  no  road  lead- 
ing to  the  mountains  that  is  passable  for  so  stately’  an  equi- 
page as  we  have  with  us  : it  therefore  returns  to  Geneva, 
and  I now  must  take  my  leave  of  you  in  order  to  pursue  my 
route  a little  farther.  A mule  with  my  luggage  wiU  follow 
us  as  we  pick  our  way  on  foot. 

Chamouni,  Nov.  i,  1779. 

Evening,  about  nine  o’clock. . 

It  is  only  because  this  letter  will  bring  me  for  a while  nearer 
to  yourself,  that  I resume  my  pen  : otherwise  it  would  be 
better  for  me  to  give  my  mind  a little  rest. 

We  left  Salenche  behind  us  in  a lovely  open  valley.  During 
our  noonday’s  rest  the  sky  had  become  overcast  with  white 
fleecy  clouds,  about  which  I have  here  a special  remark  to 
make.  We  had  seen  them  on  a bright  da3^  rise  equally  fine, 
if  not  still  finer,  from  the  glaciers  of  Berne.  Here,  too,  it 
again  seemed  to  us  as  if  the  sun  had  first  of  all  attracted  the 
light  mists  which  evaporated  from  the  tops  of  the  glaciers, 
and  then  a gentle  breeze  had,  as  it  were,  combed  the  fine 
vapors,  like  a fleece  of  foam,  over  the  atmosphere.  I never 
remember  at  home,  even  in  the  height  of  summer  (when  such 
phenomena  do  also  occur  with  us),  to  have  seen  any  so  trans- 
parent ; for  here  it  was  a perfect  web  of  light.  Before  long 
the  ice-covered  mountains  from  which  it  rose  lay  before  us. 


82 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


The  valley  began  to  close  in.  The  Arve  vas  gushing  out  of 
the  rock.  We  now  began  to  ascend  a mountain,  and  went  up . 
higher  and  higher,  with  the  snowy  summits  right  before  us. 
Mountains  and  old  pine-forests,  either  in  the  hollows  below, 
or  on  a level  with,  our  track,  came  out  one  by  one  before  the 
eye  as  we  proceeded.  On  our  left  were  the  mountain  peaks, 
bare  and  pointed.  W''e  felt  that  we  were  approaching  a 
mightier  and  more  massive  chain  of  mountains.  We  passed 
over  a drj'  and  broad  bed  of  stones  and  gravel,  which  the 
water-courses  tear  down  from  the  sides  of  the  rocks,  and  in 
turn  flow  among,  and  fill  up.  This  brought  us  into  an  agreea- 
ble valley,  flat,  and  shut  in  by  a circular  ridge  of  rocks,  in 
which  lies  the  little  village  of  Serves.  There  the  road  runs 
round  some  very  highly  variegated  rocks,  and  takes  again  the 
direction  towards  the  Arve.  After  crossing  the  latter,  you 
again  ascend.  The  masses  become  constautlj’  more  imposing. 
Nature  seems  to  have  begun  here  with  a light  hand  to  pre- 
pare her  enormous  creations.  The  darkness  grew  deeper 
and  deeper  as  we  approached  the  Valle}^  of  Chamonni ; and 
when,  at  last,  we  entered  it,  notliing  but  the  larger  masses 
were  discernible.  The  stars  came  out  one  bj'  one  ; and  we 
noticed  above  the  peaks  of  the  summits,  right  before  us.  a 
light  which  we-  could  not  account  for.  Clear,  but  without 
brilliancy ; like  the  milky  way,  but  closer ; something  like 
that  of  the  Pleiades,  — it  riveted  our  attention,  until  at  last, 
as  our  position  changed,  like  a pyramid  illuminated  by  a 
secret  light  within,  which  could  best  be  compared  to  the 
gleam  of  a glow-worm,  it  towered  high  above  the  peaks  of 
all  the  surrounding  mountains,  and  at  last  convinced  us  that 
it  must  be  the  peak  of  Mont  Blanc.  The  beauty  of  this  view 
was  extraordinary.  For  while,  together  with  the  stars  that 
clustered  round  it,  it  glimmered,  — not,  indeed,  with  the 
same  twinkling  light,  but  in  a broader  and  more  continuous 
mass,  — it  seemed  to  belong  to  a higher  sphere,  and  one  had 
dilliculty  in  thought  to  fix  its  roots  again  in  the  earth.  Before 
it  we  saw  a line  of  snowj’  summits,  sparkling  as  they  rested 
on  the  ridges  covered  with  the  black  pines  ; while  between  the 
dark  forests  vast  glaciers  sloped  down  to  the -valley  below. 

My  descriptions  begin  to  be  irregular  and  forced : in  fact, 
one  wants  two  persons  here, — one  to  see,  and  the  other  to 
describe. 

Here  we  are,  in  the  middle  village  of  the  valley  called  Le 
Prienre,”  comfortably  lodged  in  a house  which  a widow 
caused  to  be  built  here  in  honor  of  the  many  stranger's  who 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


33 


visited  the  neighborhood.  We  are  sitting  close  to  the  hearth, 
relishing  our  Muscatel  wine  from  the  Vallee  d’Aost  far  bet- 
ter than  the  lenten  dishes  which  were  served  up  for  our 
dinner. 


Nov.  5,  1779.  Evening. 

To  take  up  one’s  pen  and  write,  almost  requires  as  great 
an  effort  as  to  go  into  a cold  river.  At  this  moment  I have  a 
great  mind  to  put  you  off  by  referring  you  to  the  description 
of  the  glaciers  of  Savoy,  published  by  Bourritt,  an  enthusi- 
astic climber. 

Invigorated,  however,  by  a few  glasses  of  excellent  wine, 
and  by  the  thought  that  these  pages  will  reach  you  much 
sooner  than  either  the  travellers  or  Bourritt’ s book,  I will  do 
my  best.  The  Valley  of  Chamouui,  in  which  we  are  at  pres- 
ent, lies  very  high  among  the  mountains,  and,  from  six  to 
seven  leagues  long,  runs  pretty  nearlj^  from  south  to  north. 
The  characteristic  features  which  to  my  mind  distinguish  it 
from  all  others,  are  its  having  scarcely  any  flat  portion  ; ljut 
the  whole  tract,  like  a trough,  slopes  from  the  Arve  gradu- 
ally up  the  sides  of  the  mountain.  Mont  Blanc  and  the  line 
of  mountains  which  runs  off  from  it,  and  the  masses  of  ice 
which  fill  up  the  immense  ravines,  make  up  the  eastern  wall 
of  the  valley,  on  which,  throughout  its  entire  length,  seven 
glaciers,  of  which  one  is  considerably  larger  than  the  others, 
run  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  vallej'. 

The  guides  whom  we  had  engaged  to  show  us  to  the  ice- 
lake  came  betimes.  One  was  an  active  young  fellow  ; the 
other,  much  older,  who  seemed  to  think  himself  a very  shrewd 
personage,  having  held  intercourse  with  all  learned  foreigners, 
and  being  well  acquainted  with  the  nature  of  the  ice-moun- 
tains, and  a very  clever  fellow.  He  assured  us,  that,  for 
eight  and  twenty  years  (so  long  had  he  acted  as  guide),  this 
was  the  first  time  his  services  had  been  put  in  requisition 
so  late  in  the  year,  — after  All-yaints’  Day,  — and  yet  that 
we  might  even  now  see  every  object  quite  as  well  as  in  June. 
Provided  with  wine  and  food,  we  began  to  ascend  Mont 
Anvert,  from  which  we  w'ere  told  the  view  of  the  ice-lake 
would  be  quite  ravishing.  Properly  I should  call  it  the  ice- 
valley  or  the  ice-stream ; for,  looking  at  it  from  above,  the 
huge  masses  of  ice  force  themselves  out  of  a deep  valley  in 
tolerable  smoothness.  Right  behind  it  ends  a sharp-pointed 
mountain,  from  both  sides  of  which  waves  of  ice  run  frozen 
into  the  principal  stream.  Not  the  slightest  trace  of  snow 


34 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


was  as  3'et  to  be  seen  on  the  rugged  surfaces,  and  the  blue 
crevices  glistened  beautifully.  Tlie  weather,  by  degrees,  Ijo- 
came  overcast ; and  I saw  gray  wavv  clouds,  which  seemed  to 
threaten^  snow  more  than  it  had  ever  yet  done.  On  the  spot 
where  we  were  standing  is  a small  cabin,  built  of  stones 
loosely  piled  together,  as  a shelter  for  travellers,  which  in 
joke  has  been  named  “ The  Castle  of  Mont  Anvert.”  Ai: 
Englishman  of  the  name  of  Blaire,  who  is  residing  at  Geneva, 
has  caused  a more  spacious  one  to  be  built  at  a more  conven- 
ient spot,  and  a little  higher  up,#\-here,  sitting  by  a fireside, 
you  catch  through  the  window  a view  of  the  whole  ice-valley. 
The  peaks  of  the  rocks  over  against  you,  as  also  in  the  val- 
ley below,  are  very  pointed  and  rugged.  These  jags  are  called 
needles  ; and  the  Aiguille  du  Dm  is  a remarkable  peak  of  this 
kind,  right  opposite  to  Mont  Anvert.  AVe  now  wished  to 
walk  upon  the  ice-lake  itself,  and  to  consider  these  immense 
masses  close  at  hand.  Accordingly^  we  climbed  down  the 
mountain,  and  took  nearlj'  a hundred  steps  round  about  on 
the  wave-like  crystal  cliffs.  It  is  certianly^  a singular  sight, 
when,  standing  on  the  ice  itself,  you  see  before  y’ou  the  masses . 
pressing  upwards,  and  divided  b\’  strangely  shaped  clefts. 
However,  we  did  not  like  standing  on  this  slippery  surface  ; 
for  we  were  not  provided  with  ice-shoes,  nor  had  we  nails  in 
those  which  we  ordinarily  wore,  and  which,  on  the  contrary, 
had  become  smooth  and  rounded  with  our  long  walk.  AVe 
therefore  made  our  way'  back  to  the  hut,  and.  after  a short 
rest,  were  ready'  for  returning.  AA^'e  descended  the  mountain, 
and  came  to  the  spot  where  the  ice-stream,  step  by  step, 
forces  its  way  to  the  valley  below  ; and  we  entered  the  cavern, 
into  which  it  empties  its  water.  It  is  broad,  deep,  and  of  the 
most  beautiful  blue  ; and  in  the  cave  the  supply'  of  water  is 
more  invariable  than  farther  on  at  the  mouth,  since  great 
pieces  of  ice  are  constantly  melting  and  dissolving  in  it. 

On  our  road  to  the  Auberge,  we  passed  the  house  where 
there  were  two  Albinos,  — children  between  twelve  and  four- 
teen, with  very  white  complexions,  rough  white  hair,  aiid 
with  red  and  restless  eyes,  like  those  of  rabbits.  The  deep 
night  which  hangs  over  the  valley  invites  me  to  retire  early 
to  bed ; and  I am  hardly  awake  enough  to  tell  you  that  we 
have  seen  a tame  young  ibex,  who  stands  out  as  distinctly 
among  the  goats,  as  the  natural  sou  of  a noble  prince  from 
the  burgher’s  family'  among  whom  he  is  privately  brought  up 
and  educated.  It  does  not  suit  with  our  discoui-ses,  that  I 
should  speak  of  any  thing  out  of  its  due  order.  Besides,  you 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


35 


do  not  take  much  delight  in  specimens  of  granite,  quaitz,  or 
in  larch  and  pine  trees,  yet,  most  of  all,  you  would  desire  to 
see  some  remarkable  fruits  of  our  botanizing.  I think  I am 
stupid  with  sleep  : I cannot  write  another  line. 

Chamouni,  Nov.  6,  177G. 

Early. 

Content  with  seeing  all  that  the  early  season  allows  us  to 
see,  we  are  ready  to  start  again,  intending  to  penetrate  as  far 
as  Valais  to-day.  A thick  mist  covers  the  whole  valley,  and 
reaches  halfway  up  the  mountains  ; and  we  must  wait  and 
see  what  sun  and  wind  will  }'et  do  for  us.  Our  guide  pur- 
poses that  we  should  take  the  road  over  the  Col  de  Balme  (a 
lofty  eminence  which  lies  on  the  north  side  of  the  valley, 
towards  Valais),  from  the  summit  of  which,  if  we  are  lucky, 
we  shall  be  able  to  take  another  survey  of  the  Valley  of 
Chamouni,  and  of  all  its  remarkable  objects. 

Whilst  I am  writing,  a remarkable  phenomenon  is  passing 
along  the  sky.  The  mists,  which  are  shifting  about  and  break- 
ing in  some  places,  allow  you,  through  their  openings,  as 
through  skylights,  to  catch  a glance  of  the  blue  sky,  while  at 
the  same  time  the  mountain  peaks,  rising  above  our  roof  of 
vapor,  are  illuminated  by  the  sun’s  rays.  Even  without  the 
hope  it  gives  of  a beautiful  day,  this  sight  of  itself  is  a rich 
treat  to  the  eye. 

We  have  at  last  obtained  a standard  for  judging  the  heights 
of  the  mountains.  It  is  at  a considerable  height  above  the 
valley  that  the  vapor  rests  on  the  mountains.  At  a still 
greater  height  are  clouds,  which  have  floated  off  upwards 
from  the  top  of  the  mist ; and  then  far  above  these  clouds 
you  see  the  summits  glittering  in  the  sunshine. 

It  is  time  to  go.  I must  bid  farewell  to  this  beautiful  val- 
ley and  to  you. 


Maktinac  in  Valais,  Nov.  6,  1779. 

Evening. 

We  have  made  the  passage  across  without  any  mishap,  and 
so  this  adventure  is  over.  The  joy  of  our  good  luck  will 
keep  mjr  pen  going  merrily  for  a good  half-hour  yet. 

Having  packed  our  luggage  on  a mule,  we  set  out  early 
(about  nine)  from  Prieure.  The  clouds  shifted,  so  th.at  the 
peaks  were  now  visible,  and  then  were  lost  again  : at  one 
moment  the  sun’s  rays  came  in  streaks  on  the  valley,  at 
the  next  the  whole  of  it  was  again  in  shade.  We  went  up  tlm 


36 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


valley,  passing  the  outlet  of  the  ice-streain,  then  the  glacier 
d’Argenti^re,  which  is  the  highest  of  the  five  : the  top  of  it, 
however,  was  hidden  from  our  view  by  the  clouds.  On  the 
plain  we  held  a council  whether  we  should  or  not  take  the 
route  over  Col  de  Balme,  and  abandon  the  road  over  Valor- 
sine.  The  prospect  was  not  the  most  promising : however, 
as  here  there  was  nothing  to  lose,  and  much,  perhaps,  to  gain, 
we  took  our  way  boldh'  towards  the  dark  region  of  mists  and 
clouds.  As  we  approached  the  Glacier  du  Tour,  the  clouds 
l>arted,  and  we  saw  this  glacier  also  in  full  light.  We  sat 
down  a while,  and  drank  a flask  of  wine,  and  took  something 
to  eat.  We  now'  mounted  towards  the  sources  of  the  Arve, 
passing  over  rugged  meadows,  and  patches  scantily  covered 
wdth  turf,  and  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  region  of  mists, 
until  at  last  we  entered  right  into  it.  We  went  on  patiently 
for  a while,  till  at  last,  as  we  got  up  higher,  it  began  again  to  ^ 
clear  above  our  heads.  It  lasted  for  a short  time : so  we 
passed  right  out  of  the  clouds,  and  saw  the  whole  mass  of  ' 
them  beneath  us,  spread  over  the  valley,  and  were  able  to  see 
the  summits  of  all  the  mountains  on  the  right  and  left  that  i 
enclose('  it,  with  the  exception  of  ^lont  Blanc,  which  was 
covered  with  clouds.  We  were  able  to  point  them  out  one 
by  one,  and  to  name  them.  In  some  we  saw  the  glaciers 
reaching  from  their  summits  to  their  feet : in  others  we  could 
only  dis:;ern  their  tracks,  as  the  ice  was  concealed  from  our 
A’iew'  bj'  the  rocky  sides  of  the  gorges.  Beyond  the  whole  of  I 
the  flat  surface  of  the  clouds,  except  at  its  southern  extrem-  i 
ity,  we  could  distinctly  see  the  mountains  glittering  in  the  ! 
sunshine.  Why  should  I enumerate  to  you  the  names  of 
summits,  peaks,  needles,  icy  and  snowy  masses,  when  their 
mere  designations  can  furnish  no  idea  to  your  mind,  either 
of  the  whole  scene  or  of  its  single  objects  ? 

It  was  quite  singular  how  the  spirits  of  the  air  seemed  to 
be  waging  war  beneath  us.  Scarcely  had  we  stood  a few 
minutes  enjoying  the  grand  view,  when  a hostile  ferment 
seemed  to  arise  within  the  mist ; and  it  suddenly  rose  upwards, 
and  threatened  once  more  to  envelop  us.  We  commenced 
stoutlj'  ascending  the  height,  'in  the  hope  of  yet  a while  escap- 
ing from  it ; but  it  outstripped  us,  and  enclosed  us  on  all 
sides.  However,  perfectly  fresh,  we  continued  to  mount: 
and  soon  there  came  to  our  aid  a strong  wind,  blowing  from 
the  mountain.  Blowing  over  the  saddle  which  connected  two 
peaks,  it  drove  the  mist  back  again  into  the  valley.  This 
strange  conflict  was  frequently  repeated  ; and  at  last,  to  our 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


37 


we  reached  the  Col  de  Balme.  The  view  from  it  was 
singular,  indeed  unique.  The  sky  above  the  peaks  was  over- 
cast with  clouds : below,  through  the  many  openings  in  the 
mist,  we  saw  the  whole  of  Chamouni,  and  between  these  two 
layers  of  cloud  the  mountain  summits  were  all  visible.  Ou 
the  east  we  were  shut  in  bj^  rugged  mountains  : on  the  west 
we  looked  dowir  on  wild  vallej’S,  where,  however,  on  every 
green  patch,  human  dwellings  were  visible.  Before  us  lay  the 
Valley  of  Valais,  where,  at  one  glance,  the  eye  took  in  moun- 
tains piled  in  every  variety  of  mass,  one  upon  another,  and 
stretching  as  far  as  Martinac,  and  even  beyond  it.  Surround- 
ed on  all  sides  by  mountains,  which,  farther  ou  towards  the 
horizon,  seemed  continually  to  multiply,  and  to  tower  higher 
and  higher,  we  stood  on  the  confines  of  Valais  and  Savoy. 

Some  contrabandists,  who  were  ascending  the  mountains 
with  their  mules,  were  alarmed  at  seeing  us  ; for  at  this  sea- 
son they  did  not  reckon  on  meeting  with  any  one  at  this  spot. 
They  fired  a shot  to  intimate  that  they  were  armed,  and  one 
advanced  before  the  rest  to  reconnoitre.  Having  recognized 
our  guide,  and  seen  what  a harmless  figure  we  made,  he  re- 
turned to  his  party,  who  now  approached  us,  and  w‘e  passed 
one  another  with  mutual  greetings. 

The  wind  now  blew  sharp  ; and  it  began  to  snow  a little  as 
we  commenced  our  descent,  which  was  rough  and  wild 
' enough,  through  an  ancient  forest  of  pines,  which  had  taken 
root  ou  the  faces  of  the  gneiss.  Torn  up  by  the  winds,  the 
trunks  and  roots  lay  rotting  together ; and  the  rocts,  which 
were  loosened  at  the  same  time,  were  lying  in  rough  masses 
among  them. 

' At  last  we  reached  the  valley  where  the  River  Trent  takes 
its  rise  from  a glacier,  and  passing  the  village  of  Trent,  close 
upon  our  right,  we  followed  the  windings  of  the  valley  along 
a rather  inconvenient  road,  and  about  six  reached  Martinac, 
which  lies  in  the  flatter  portion  of  the  Valais.  Here  we  must 
refresh  ourselves  for  further  expeditions. 

Maktinac,  Nov.  6,  1779. 

Evening. 

Just  as  our  travels  proceed  uninterruptedly,  so  mj^  let- 
ters, one  after  another,  keep  up  my  conversation  with  you. 
Scarcely  have  I folded  and  put -aside  the  conclusion  of 
“Wanderings  through  Savoy,”  ere  I take  up  another  sheet 
of  paper  in  order  to  acquaint  you  with  all  that  we  ha\'c 
further  in  contemplation. 


38 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAXD. 


It  was  night  when  we  entered  a country  about  which  our 
curiosity  had  long  been  excited.  As  yet  we  have  seen  nothing  . 
but  the  peaks  of  the  mountains,  which  enclose  the  valley  on 
both  sides,  and  then  only  in  the  glimmering  of  twilight.  IVe 
crept  into  our  inn,  and  from  the  window  we  see  the  clouds 
shift.  We  feel  as  glad  and  comfortable  to  have  a roof  over 
our  heads,  as  children  do,  when  with  stools,  table-leaves, 
and  carpets  they  construct  a roof  near  the  stove,  and  therein 
say  to  one  another  that  outside  “ it  is  raining  or  snowing.” 
in  order  to  excite  a pleasant  and  imaginai’y  shudder  in  their 
little  souls.  It  is  exactly  so  with  us  on  this  autumnal  even- 
ing in  this  strange  and  unknown  region. 

W e learn  from  the  maps  that  we  are  sitting  in  the  angle 
of  an  elbow,  from  which  the  smaller  part  of  Valais  — running 
almost  directly  from  south  to  north,  and  with  the  Rhone  — 
extends  to  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  while  the  other  and  the  larger 
portion  stretches  from  west  to  east,  and  goes  up  the  Rhone 
to  its  source,  the  Furca.  The  prospect  of  riding  through 
the  Valais  is  very  agreeable  : our  only  anxiety  is  how  we  are 
to  cross  over  into  it.  First  of  all,  with  the  view  of  seeing 
the  lower  portion,  it  is  settled  that  we  go  to-morrow  to  St. 
Maurice,  where  we  are  to  meet  our  friend,  who,  with  the 
horses,  has  gone  round  by  the  Pays  de  Vaud.  To-mon'ow 
evening  we  think  of  being  here  again,  and  then  on  the  next 
day  shall  begin  to  go  up  the  country.  If  the  advice  of  M. 
de  Saussure  prevails,  we  shall  perform  the  route  to  the  Furca 
on  horseback,  and  then  back  to  Brieg  over  the  Simplon, 
where,  in  any  weather,  the  travelling  is  good  over  Domo 
d’Osula,  Lago  Maggiore,  Bellinzona,  and  then  up  Mount 
Gothard.  The  road  is  said  to  be  excellent,  and  everywhere 
passable  for  horses.  IVe  should  best  prefer  going  over  the  i 
Furca  to  St.  Gothard,  both  for  the  sake  of  the  shoi’ter  route,  , 
and  also  because  this  detotir  through  the  Italian  provinces  | 
was  not  within  our  original  plan.  But  then  what  could  we  do  i 
with  our  horses  ? They  could  not  be  made  to  descend  the 
Furca  ; for,  in  all  probability,  the  path  for  pedestrians  is 
already  blocked  up  b}'  the  snow. 

With  regard  to  the  latter  contingency,  however,  we  are 
quite  at  our  ease,  and  hope  to  be  able,  as  we  have  hitherto 
done,  to  lake  counsel,  from  moment  to  moment,  with  cii- 
cumstances  as  they  arise. 

The  most  remarkable  object  in  this  inn  is  a servant-girl, 
who,  with  the  greatest  stupidity,  gives  herself  all  the  airs  of 
one  of  our  would-be  delicate  German  ladies  We  had  a 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


39 


good  laugh,  when  after  bathing  our  weary  feet  in  a bath  of 
red  wine  and  clay,  as  recommended  by  our  guide,  we  had  in 
the  affected  hoiden  to  wipe  them  dry. 

Our  meal  has  not  refreshed  us  much,  and  after  supper  we 
hope  to  enjoy  our  beds  more. 


St.  Maurice,  Nov.  7,  1779. 

Nearly  noon. 

On  the  road  it  is  my  way  to  enjoy  the  beautiful  views  in 
order  that  I may  call  in  one  by  one  my  absent  friends,  and 
converse  with  them  on  the  subject  of  the  glorious  objects. 
If  I come  into  an  inn,  it  is  in  order  to  rest  myself,  to  go  back 
in  memory  and  to  write  something  to  you,  when  many  a time 
my  overstrained  faculties  would  much  rather  collapse  upon 
themselves,  and  recover  their  tone  in  a sort  of  half-sleep. 

This  morning  we  set  off  at  dawn  from  Martinac.  A fresh 
breeze  was  stirring  with  the  day,  and  we  soon  passed  the  old 
castle  which  stands  at  the  point  where  the  two  arms  of  Valais 
make  a sort  of  Y.  The  valley  is  narrow,  shut  iu  on  its  two 
sides  by  mountains  highly  diversified  iu  their  forms,  and 
which,  without  exception,  are  of  a peculiar  and  sublimely 
beautiful  character.  We  came  to  the  spot  where  the  Trent 
breaks  into  the  valley  around  some  narrow  and  perpendicular 
rocks  ; so  that  one  almost  doubts  whether  the  river  does  not 
fiow  out  of  the  solid  rock  itself.  Close  by  stands  the  old 
bridge,  which  only  last  year  was  greatly  injured  by  the 
stream  ; while  not  far  from  it  lie  immense  masses  of  rock, 
which  have  fallen  very  recentty  from  the  mountains,  and 
blocked  up  the  road.  The  whole  group  together  would  make 
an  extremely  beautiful  picture.  At  a short  distance,  a new 
wooden  bridge  has  been  built  and  a new  road  laid  down. 

We  knew  that  we  were  getting  near  the  famous  waterfall 
of  Pisse  Vache,  and  wished  heartily  for  a peep  at  the  sun  ; 
the  shifting  clouds  giving  us  some  hope  that  our  wish  would 
be  gratified.  On  the  road  we  examined  various  pieces  of 
granite  and  of  gneiss,  which,  with  all  their  differences,  seem, 
nevertheless,  to  have  a common  origin.  At  last  we  stood 
before  the  waterfall,  which  well  deserves  its  fame  above  all 
others.  At  a considerable  height  a strong  stream  bursts  from 
a cleft  in  the  rock,  falling  downward  into  a basin,  over  which 
the  foam  and  spray  is  carried  far  and  wide  by  the  wind.  The 
sun  at  this  moment  came  forth  from  the  clouds,  and  made 
the  sight  doubly  vivid.  Below  in  the  spray,  wherever  jmu  go, 
you  have  close  before  you  a rainbow.  If  you  go  higher  up. 


40 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


you  still  witness  no  less  singular  a plienoraenon.  The  aii-y 
foaming  waves  of  the  upper  stream  of  water,  as,  with  their 
frothy  vapor,  they  come  in  contact  with  the  angle  of  vision 
at  which  the  rainbow  is  formed,  assume  a flame-like  hue, 
without  giving  rise  to  the  pendent  form  of  the  bow  ; so  that 
at  this  point  you  have  before  you  a constantly  varying  play 
of  fire. 

We  climbed  all  round,  and,  sitting  down  near  it,  wished  we 
were  able  to  spend  w'hole  days,  and  many  a good  hour  of  our 
life,  on  this  spot.  Here,  too,  as  in  so  many  other  places 
during  our  present  tour,  we  felt  how  impossible  it  was  to 
enjoy  and  to  be  fully  impressed  with  grand  objects  on  a 
passing  visit. 

We  came  to  a village  where  there  were  some  merry  sol- 
diers, and  we  drank  there  some  new  wine.  Some  of  the 
same  sort  had  been  set  before  us  yesterday.  It  looked  like 
soap  and  water : however,  I had  rather  drink  it  than  their 
sour  “ this  year’s  ” and  “ two  years’  old  ” wine.  When  one 
is  thirsty,  nothing  comes  amiss. 

We  saw  St.  Maiu’ice  at  a distance : it  is  situated  just  at 
the  point  where  the  valley  closes  in,  so  much  as  to  cease  to 
be  any  thing  more  than  a mere  pass.  Over  the  city,  on  the 
left,  we  saw  a small  church,  with  a hennitage  close  to  it ; and 
we  hope  to  have  an  opportunity  yet  of  visiting  them  both. 

We  found  in  the  inn  a note  from  our  friend,  who  has 
stopped  at  Bee,  which  is  about  three-quarters  of  a league 
from  this  place : we  have  sent  a messenger  to  him.  The 
count  IS  gone  out  for  a walk,  to  see  the  country  before  us. 
I shall  take  a morsel  to  eat,  and  then  set  out  towards  the 
famous  bridge  and  the  pass. 

After  one  o’clock. 

I have  at  last  got  back  from  the  spot  where  one  could  be 
contented  to  spend  whole  days  together,  lounging  and  loiter- 
ing about,  without  once  getting  tired,  holding  converse  with 
one’s  self. 

If  I had  to  advise  any  one  as  to  the  best  route  into  Valais, 
I should  recommend  the  one  from  the  Lake  of  Geneva  up 
the  Rhone.  I have  been  on  the  road  to  Bee  over  the  great 
bridge,  from  which  you  step  at  once  into  the  Bernese  teiri- 
tory.  Here  the  Rhone  flows  downwards,  and  the  valley  near 
the  lake  becomes  a little  broader.  As  I turned  round  again, 
I saw  that  the  rocks  near  St.  iMauriee  pressed  together  from 
both  sides,  and  that  a small  light  bridge,  with  a high  arch, 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


41 


was  thrown  boldly  across  from  them  over  the  Rhone,  which 
rushes  beneath  it  with  its  roaring  and  foaming  stream.  The 
numerous  angles  and  turrets  of  a fortress  stand  close  to  the 
bridge,  and  a single  gateway  commands  the  entrance  into 
Valais.  I went  over  the  bridge  back  towards  St.  Maurice, 
and  even  beyond  it,  in  search  of  a view  which  I had  for- 
merly seen  a drawing  of  at  Huber’s  house,  and  by  good  luck 
found  it. 

The  count  is  come  back.  He  had  gone  to  meet  the  horses, 
and,  mounting  his  gray,,  had  outstripped  the  rest.  He  says  the 
bridge  is  so  light  and  beautiful,  that  it  looks  like  a horse  in 
the  act  of  leaping  a ditch.  Our  friend,  too,  is  coming,  and 
is  quite  contented  with  his  tour.  He  accomplished  the  dis- 
tance from  the  Lake  of  Geneva  to  Bee  in  a few  days,  and 
we  are  all  delighted  to  see  one  another  again. 


Maetinac,  at  about  nine. 

We  were  out  riding  till  late  at  night ; and  the  road  seemed 
much  longer  returning  than  going,  as,  in  the  morning,  our 
attention  had  been  constantly  attracted  from  one  object  to 
another.  Besides,  I am,  for  this  day  at  least,  heartily  tired 
of  descriptions  and  reflections : however,  I must  try  hastily 
to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  two  beautiful  objects.  It  was 
deep  twilight,  when,  on  our  return,  we  reached  the  waterfall 
of  the  Pisse  Vache.  The  mountains,  the  valley,  and  the 
heavens  themselves,  were  dark  and  dusky.  By  its  grayish 
tint  and  unceasing  murmur  you  could  distinguish  the  falling 
stream  from  all  other  objects,  though  you  could  scarcely  dis- 
cern the  slightest-  motion.  Suddenly  the  summit  of  a very 
high  peak  glowed  just  like  molten  brass  in  a furnace,  and 
above  it  rose  red  smoke.  This  singular  phenomenon  was  the 
effect  of  the  setting  sun  illuminating  the  snow  and  the  mists 
which  ascended  from  it. 

Sion,  Nov.  8,  1779. 

About  three  o’clock. 

This  morning  we  missed  our  way  riding,  and  were  delayed, 
in  consequence,  three  hours  at  least.  We  set  out  from 
Martinac  before  dawn,  in  order  to  reach  Sion  in  good  time. 
The  weather  was  extraordinarily’  beautiful,  only  that  the  sun, 
being  low  in  the  heavens,  was  shut  out  by  the  mountains  ; so 
that  the  road,  as  we  passed  along,  was  entirely  in  the  shade. 
The  view,  however,  of  the  marvellously  beautiful  valley  of 
Valais  called  up  many  a good  and  cheerful  idea.  We  had 


42 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAXD. 


ridden  for  fall  three  hours  along  the  high  road,  with  the 
Rhone  on  our  left,  when  we  saw  Sion  before  us  ; and  we 
were  beginning  to  congratulate  ourselves  on  the  prospect  of 
soon  ordering  our  noon-day’s  meal,  when  we  found  that  the 
bridge  we  ought  to  cross  had  been  carried  away.  Nothing 
remained  for  us,  we  were  told  b}*  the  people  who  were  busy 
repairing  it,  but  either  to  leave  our  horses,  and  go  by  a foot- 
path which  ran  across  the  rocks,  or  else  to  ride  on  for  about 
three  miles,  and  then  cross  the  Rhone  by  some  other  bridges. 
W e chose  the  latter ; and  we  would  not  suffer  any  ill  humor 
to  get  possession  of  us,  but  determined  to  ascribe  this  mis- 
chance to  the  interposition  of  our  good  genius,  who  intended 
to  take  us  a slow  ride  through  this  interesting  region  with 
the  advantage  of  good  daylight.  Everywhere,  indeed,  in 
this  narrow  district,  the  Rhone  makes  sad  havoc.  In  order 
to  reach  the  other  bridges,  we  were  obliged,  for  more  than  a 
league  and  a half,  to  ride  over  sandy  patches,  which,  in  the 
various  inundations,  are  constantly  shifting,  and  are  useful 
for  nothing  but  alder  and  willow  beds.  At  last  we  came  to 
the  bridges,  which  were  wretched,  tottering,  long,  and  com- 
posed of  rotten  timbers.  We  had  to  lead  our  horses  over, 
one  by  one,  aud  with  extreme  caution.  We  were  now  on 
the  left  side  of  the  Valais,  and  had  to  turn  backwards  to  get 
to  Sion.  The  road  itself  was,  for  the  most  part,  wretched 
and  stony  : every  step,  however,  opened  a fresh  view,  which 
was  well  worth  a painting.  One,  however,  was  particularly 
remarkable.  The  road  brought  us  up  to  a castle,  below 
which  there  was  spread  out  the  most  loveh'  scene  that  we 
had  seen  in  the  whole  road.  The  mountains  nearest  to  us 
run  down  on  both  sides  slantingly  to  the  level  ground,  and 
by  their  shape  give  a kind  of  perspective  effect  to  the 
natural  landscape.  Beneath  us  was  the  Valais,  in  its  entire 
breadth  from  mountain  to  mountain,  so  that  the  eye  could 
easily  take  it  in.  The  Rhone,  with  its  ever- varying  windings 
aud  bushy  banks,  was  flowing  past  villages,  meadows,  and 
richly  cultivated  highlands.  In  the  distance  you  saw  the 
Castle  of  Sion,  and  the  various  hills  which  begin  to  rise 
behind  it.  The  farthest  horizon  was  shut  in.  amphitheatre 
like,  with  a semicircular  range  of  snow-capi>ed  mountains, 
which,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  scene,  stood  glittering  in  the 
sun’s  meridian  splendor.  Disagreeable  and  rough  was  the 
road  we  had  to  ride  over : we  therefore  enjoyed  the  more, 
perhaps,  the  still  tolerably  green  festoons  of  the  vines  which 
overarched  it.  The  inhabitants,  to  whom  ever}’  spot  of 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAISTD. 


43 


earth  is  precious,  plant  their  grape-vines  close  against  the 
walls  which  divide  their  little  holdings  from  the  road,  where 
they  grow  to  an  extraordinary  thickness,  and,  by  means  of 
stakes  and  treUises,  are  trained  across  the  road  so  as  almost 
to  form  one  continuous  arbor.  The  lower  grounds  were 
principally  meadows.  In  the  neighborhood  of  Sion,  however, 
we  noticed  some  tillage.  Towards  this  town,  the  scenery  is 
extremely  diversified  by  a variety  of  hills,  and  we  wished  to 
be  able  to  make  a longer  stay  in  order  to  enjoy  it.  But  the 
hideousness  of  the  town  and  of  the  people  fearfully  disturb 
the  pleasant  impression  which  the  scenery  leaves.  The  most 
frightful  goitres  put  me  altogether  out  of  humor.  We  can- 
not well  put  our  horses  any  farther  to-day,  and  therefore  we 
think  of  going  on  foot  to  Seyters.  Here  in  Sion  the  inn  is 
disgusting,  and  the  whole  town  has  a duly  and  revolting 
appearance. 


Seyters,  Nov.  8, 1779. 

Night. 

As  evening  had  begun  to  fall  before  we  set  out  from 
Sion,  we  reached  here  at  night,  with  the  sky  above  us  clear 
and  starry.  We  have  consequently  lost  many  a good  view  : 
that  I know  well.  Particularly  we  should  have  liked  to 
ascend  to  the  Castle  of  Tourbillon,  which  is  at  no  great 
distance  from  Sion : the  view  from  it  must  be  uncommonly 
beautiful.  A guide  whom  we  took  with  us  skilfully  guided 
> us  through  some  wretched  low  lands,  where  the  water  was 
out.  We  soon  reached  the  heights,  and  had  the  Rhone  below 
us  on  our  right.  By  talking  over  some  astronomical  matters, 

; we  shortened  our  road,  and  have  taken  up  our  abode  here 
with  some  very  worthy  people,  who  are  doing  their  best  to 
entertain  us.  When  we  think  over  what  we  have  gone 
I through,  so  busy  a day,  with  its  many  incidents  and  sights, 

■ seems  almost  equal  to  a whole  week.  I begin  to  be  quite 
, sorry  that  I have  neither  time  nor  talent  to  sketch  at  least 
: the  outlines  of  the  most  remarkable  objects  ; for  that  would 
be  much  better  for  the  absent  than  all  descriptions. 


« Setters,  Nov.  9,  1779. 

Before  we  set  out,  I can  just  bid  you  good-morning.  The 
count  is  going  with  me  to  the  mountains  on  the  left,  towards 
Leukerbad.  Our  friend  will,  in  the  mean  time,  stay  here  with 
the  horses,  and  join  us  to-morrow  at  Leuk. 


44 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


LEtTKERP.AD,  Nov.  9,  1779. 

At  the  foot  of  Mount  Gemmi. 

In  a little  wooden  house,  where  we  have  been  most  kindlv 
received  by  some  very  worthy  people,  we  are  sitting  in  a 
small,  low  room,  and  trying  how  much  of  to-day’s  highly 
interesting  tour  can  be  communicated  in  words.  Starting 
from  Seyters  very  early,  we  proceeded  for  three  leagues  up  the 
mountains,  after  having  passed  large  districts  laid  waste  by 
the  mountain  torrents.  One  of  these  streams  will  suddenly 
rise,  and  desolate  an  extent  of  many  miles,  covering  with 
fragments  of  rock  and  gravel  the  fields,  meadows,  and  gar- 
dens, which  (at  least  wherever  possible)  the  people  labori- 
ously set  to  work  to  clear,  in  order,  within  two  generations, 
perhaps  ; to  be  again  laid  waste.  We  have  had  a gray  day, 
with  every  now  and  then  a glimpse  of  sunshine.  It  is  im- 
possible to  describe  how  infinitely  variegated  the  Valais  here 
again  becomes : the  landscape  bends  and  changes  every 
moment.  Looking  around  you,  all  the  objects  seem  to  lie 
close  together  ; and  j’et  they  are  separated  bj'  great  ravines 
and  hills.  Generally  we  had  had  the  open  part  of  the  valley 
below  us,  on  the  right,  when  suddenly  we  came  upon  a spot 
which  commanded  a most  beautiful  view  over  the  mountains. 

In  order  to  render  more  clear  what  it  is  I am  attempting  to 
describe,  I iniist  say  a few  words  on  the  geographical  posi- 
tion of  the  district  in  which  we  are  at  present.  We  had  now, 
for  three  hours,  been  ascending  the  mountainous  region  which 
separates  Valais  from  Berne.  This  is,  in  fact,  the  great 
track  of  mountains  which  runs  in  one  continuous  chain  from 
the  Lake  of  Geneva  to  Mount  St.  Gotliard,  and  on  which,  as 
it  passes  through  Berne,  rest  the  great  masses  of  ice  and 
snow.  Here  “above”  and  “ below  ” are  but  the  relative 
terms  of  the  moment.  I say,  for  instance,  beneath  me  lies  a 
village  ; and,  in  all  probabilitj',  the  level  on  which  it  is  built 
is  on  a precipitous  summit,  which  is  far  higher  above  the 
valle}'  below  than  I am  above  it. 

As  we  turned  an  angle  of  the  road,  and  rested  a while  at  a 
hermitage,  we  saw  beneath  us,  at  the  end  of  a lovely  green 
meadow-laud  which  stretched  along  the  liriuk  of  an  enor- 
mous chasm,  the  village  of  luden.  with  its  white  church 
exactly  in  the  middle  of  the  landscape,  and  built  altogether 
on  the  slope  of  the  hillside.  Beyond  the  chasm  another  line 
of  meadow  lands  and  pine  forests  went  upwards,  while  right 
behind  the  village  a vast  cleft  in  the  rocks  ran  up  the  sum- 
mit. On  the  left  hand  the  mountains  came  right  down  to 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


45 


us,  while  those  on  our  right  stretched  far  away  into  the 
distance ; so  that  the  little  hamlet,  with  its  white  church, 
formed,  as  it  were,  the  focus  towards  which  the  many  rocks, 
ravines,  and  mountains  all  converged.  The  road  to  Inden  is 
cut  out  of  the  precipitous  side  of  the  rock,  which,  on  your 
left  going  to  the  village,  lines  the  amphitheatre.  It  is  not 
dangerous,  although  it  looks  frightful  enough.  It  goes  down 
on  the  slope  of  a rugged  mass  of  rocks,  separated  from  the 
yawning  abyss  on  the  right  by  nothing  but  a few  poor 
planks.  'A  peasant  with  a mule,  who  was  descending  at  the 
same  time  as  ourselves,  whenever  he  came  to  any  dangerous 
points,  caught  his  beast  by  the  tail,  lest  the  steep  descent 
should  cause  him  to  slip,  and  roll  into  the  rocks  below.  At 
last  we  reached  Inden.  As  our  guide  was  well  known  there, 
he  easily  managed  to  obtain  for  us,  from  a good-natured 
dame,  some  bread  and  a glass  of  red  wine  ; for  in  these  parts 
there  are  no  regular  inns. 

We  now  ascended  the  high  ravine  behind  Inden,  where  we 
soon  saw  before  us  the  Gemmiberg  (of  which  we  had  heard 
such  frightful  descriptions) , with  Leukerbad  at  its  foot,  lying 
between  two  lofty,  inaccessible,  snow-covered  mountains,  as 
if  it  were  in  the  hollow  of  a hand.  It  was  three  o’clock, 
nearly,  when  we  arrived  there  ; and  our  guide  soon  procured 
us  lodgings.  There  is  properly  no  inn,  even  here  ; but,  in 
consequence  of  the  many  visitors  to  the  baths  at  this  place, 
all  people  have  good  accommodations.  Our  hostess  had  been 
put  to  bed  the  day  before ; but  her  husband,  with  an  old 
mother  and  a servant-gM,  did  very  creditably  the  honors  of 
the  house.  We  ordered  something  to  eat,  and  went  to  see 
the  warm  springs,  which  in  several  places  burst  out  of  the 
earth  with  great  force,  and  are  received  in  very  clean  reser- 
voirs. Out  of  the  village,  and  more  towards  the  mountains, 
there  are  said  to  be  still  stronger  ones.  The  water  has  not 
the  slightest  smell  of  sulphur ; and  neither  at  its  source,  nor 
in  its  channel,  does  it  make  the  least  deposit  'of  ochre,  or  of 
any  other  earth  or  mineral,  but,  like  any  other  clear  spring- 
water,  it  leaves  not  the  slightest  trace  behind  it.  As  it  comes 
out  of  the  earth,  it  is  extremely  hot,  and  is  famous  for  its 
good  qualities.  We  had  still  time  for  a walk  to  the  foot  of 
the  Gemmi,  which  appeared  to  us  to  be  at  no  great  distance. 
I must  here  repeat  a remark  that  has  been  made  so  often 
already,  — that,  when  one  is  surrounded  with  mountain  scen- 
ery, all  objects  appear  to  be  extremely  near.  We  had  a good 
league  to  go,  — across  fragments  of  rocks  which  had  fallen 


46 


LETTERS  FROM  SAVITZERLAND. 


from  the  heights,  and  over  gravel  brought  down  I33’  the  tor- 
rents, — before  we  reached  the  foot  of  the  Gemmi,  where  the 
road  ascends  along  the  precipitous  crags.  This  is  the  only 
pass  into  the  canton  of  Berne,  and  the  sick  have  to  be  trans- 
ported along  it  in  sedan-chairs. 

If  the  season  did  not  bid  us  hasten  onward,  we  should 
probably  to-moiTOw  make  an  attempt  to  ascend  this  remark- 
able mountain  : as  it  is,  however,  we  must  content  ourselves 
with  the  simple  view  of  it.  On  our  return  we  saw  the  clouds 
brewing,  which  in  these  parts  is  a highly  interesting  sight. 
The  fine  weather  we  have  hitherto  enjoj’ed  has  made  us 
almost  entirel}'  forget  that  we  are  in  November  : moreover,  as 
the^'  foretold  us  in  Berne,  the  autumn  here  is  veiT  delightful. 
The  short  days,  however,  and  the  clouds,  wdiich  threaten  snow, 
warn  us  how  late  it  is  in  the  j’ear.  The  strange  drift  which 
has  been  agitating  them  this  evening  was  singularly  beautiful. 
As  we  came  back  from  the  foot  of  the  Gemmi,  we  saw  light 
mists  come  up  the  ravine  from  luden,  and  move  with  great 
rapidity.  They  continually  changed  their  direction,  going, 
now  forward,  now  backward ; and  at  iast,  as  they  ascended, 
they  came  so  near  to  Leukerbad,  that  we  saw  clearlj-  that  we 
must  double  our  steps,  if  we  would  not,  before  nightfall,  be 
enveloped  in  the  clouds.  However,  we  reached  our  quar- 
ters without  accident ; and,  whilst  I write  this,  it  is  snow- 
ing in  earnest.  This  is  the  first  fall  of  snow  that  we  have 
j^et  had ; and  when  we  call  to  mind  our  warm  ride  yesterday, 
from  Martiuac  to  Sion,  beneath  the  vine-arbors,  which  were 
still  pretty  thick  with  leaves,  the  change  does  appear  sudden 
indeed.  I have  been  standing  some  time  at  the  door,  ob- 
serving the  character  and  look  of  the  clouds,  which  are 
beautiful  beyond  description . It  is  not  yet  night ; but  at  in- 
tervals the  clouds  veil  the  whole  skj’,  and  make  it  quite 
dark.  They  rise  out  of  the  deep  ravmes  until  thej’  reach 
the  highest  summits  of  the  mountains  : attracted  bj"  these, 
they  appear  to  thicken ; and,  being  condensed  l\v  the  cold, 
they  fall  down  in  the  shape  of  snow.  It  gives  \'ou  an  in- 
expressible feeling  of  loneliness  to  find  yourself  here  at  this 
height,  as  it  were,  in  a sort  of  well,  from  which  3’ou  scarcely 
can  suppose  that  there  is  even  a footpath  to  get  out  by, 
except  down  the  precipice  before  you.  The  clouds  which 
gather  here  in  this  vallejq  at  one  time  completely  hiding  the 
immense  rocks,  and  absorbing  them  in  a waste,  impenetrable 
gloom,  or  at  another  letting  a part  of  them  be  seen,  like 
huge  spectres,  give  to  the  people  a cast  of  melauchol}".  In 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


47 


the  midst  of  such  natural  phenomena,  the  people  are  full  of 
presentiments  and  forebodings.  Clouds,  a phenomenon  re- 
markable to  every  man  from  his  youth  up,  are  in  the  flat 
countries,  generally  looked  upon  at  most  as  something  for- 
eign, something  super-terrestrial.  People  regard  them  as 
strangers,  as  birds  of  passage,  which,  hatched  under  a dif- 
ferent climate,  visit  this  or  that  countiy  for  a moment  or 
two  in  passing ; as  splendid  pieces  of  tapestry,  wherewith 
the  gods  part  off  their  pomp  and  splendor  from  human  eyes. 
But  here,  where  the}'  are  hatched,  one  is  enveloped  in  them 
from  the  very  first,  and  the  eternal  and  intrinsic  energy  of 
his  nature  feels  moved  at  every  nerve  to  forebbde,  and  to 
indulge  in  presentiments. 

To  the  clouds,  which  with  us  even  produce  these  effects, 
we  pay  little  attention  : moreover,  as  they  are  not  pushed  so 
thickly  and  dmectly  before  our  eyes,  their  economy  is  the 
more  difficult  to  observe.  With  regard  to  all  such  phe- 
nomena, one’s  only  wish  is  to  dwell  on  them  for  a while,  and 
to  be  able  to  tarry  several  days  in  the  spots  where  they  are 
observable.  If  one  is  fond  of  such  observations,  the  desire 
becomes  the  more  vivid,  the  more  one  reflects  that  every 
season  of  the  year,  every  hour  of  the  day,  and  every  change 
of  weather,  produces  new  phenomena  which  we  little  looked 
for.  And  as  no  man,  not  even  the  most  ordinary  character, 
was  ever  a witness,  even  for  once,  of  gi'eat  and  unusual 
events,  without  their  leaving  behind  in  his  soul  some  traces 
or  other,  and  making  him  feel  himself  also  to  be  greater  for 
this  one  little  shied  of  grandeur,  so  that  he  is  never  weary 
of  telling  the  whole  tale  of  it  over  again,  and  has  gained,  at 
any  rate,  a little  treasure  for  his  whole  life,  just  so  is  it  with 
the  man  who  has  seen  and  become  familiar  with  the  grand 
phenomena  of  nature.  He  who  manages  to  preserve  these 
impressions,  and  to  combine  them  with  other  thoughts  and 
emotions,  has,  assuredly,  a stock  of  spice  wherewith  to  sea- 
son the  most  tasteless  parts  of  life,  and  to  give  a pervading 
relish  to  the  whole  of  existence. 

I observe  that  in  my  notes  I make  very  little  mention  of 
human  beings.  Amid  these  grand  objects  of  nature,  they  are 
but  little  worthy  of  notice,  especially  where  they  do  but  come 
and  go.  I doubt  not  but  that,  on  a longer  stay,  we  should 
meet  with  many  worthy  and  interesting  people.  One  thing  I 
think  I have  observed  everywhere,  — the  farther  one  moves 
from  the  high  road  and  the  busy  marts  of  men,  the  more 
people  are  shut  in  by  the  mountains,  isolated  and  confined  to 


48 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


the  simplest  wants  of  life,  the  more  they  draw  their  mainte- 
nance from  simple,  humble,  and  unchangeable  pursuits,  the 
better,  the  more  obliging,  the  more  friendly,  unselfish,  and 
hospitable  they  are. 

Leukeebad,  Nov.  10,  1779. 

We  are  getting  ready  by  candle-light,  in  order  to  descend 
the  mountain  again  as  soon  as  day  breaks.  I have  passed 
a rather  restless  night.  I had  not  been  long  in  bed  before  I 
felt  as  if  I were  attacked  all  over  with  the  nettle-rash.  I 
soon  found,  however,  that  it  was  a swarm  of  jumping  insects, 
who,  ravenous  for  blood,  had  fallen  upon  the  new-comer. 
These  insects  breed  in  great  numbers  in  these  wooden 
houses.  The  night  appeared  to  me  extremely  long ; and  I 
was  heartily  glad,  when,  in  the  morning,  a light  was  brought 
in. 

Leukeebad. 

About  ten  o’clock. 

We  have  not  much  time  to  spare  : however,  before  we  set 
out,  I will  give  you  an  account  of  the  remarkable  breaking 
up  of  our  company,  which  has  here  taken  place,  and  also  of 
the  cause  of  it.  We  set  out  from  Leukerbad  with  daybreak 
this  morning,  and  had  to  make  our  way  over  the  meadows 
through  the  fresh  and  slippery  snow.  We  soon  came  to 
Inden,  where,  leaving  above  us  on  om-  right  the  precipitous 
road  which  we  came  down  yesterday*,  we  descended  to  the 
meadow  lands  along  the  ravine,  which  now  lay  on  our  left. 
It  is  extremely  wild,  and  overgrown  with  trees  ; but  a very 
tolerable  road  runs  down  into  it.  Through  the  clefts  in  the 
rock,  the  water  which  comes  down  from  Leukerbad  has  its 
outlets  into  the  Valais.  High  up  on  the  side  of  the  lull 
which  yesterday  we  descended,  we  saw  an  aqueduct  skil- 
fully cut  out  of  the  rock,  b}'  which  a little  stream  is  con- 
ducted from  the  mountain,  then  through  a hollow  into  a 
neighboring  village. 

Next  we  had  to  ascend  a steep  height,  from  which  we  soon 
saw  the  open  counti'y  of  Valais,  with  the  dirty  town  of  Valais 
lying  beneath  us.  These  little  towns  are  mostly  stuck  on 
the  hillsides,  the  roofs  inelegantly  covered  with  coarsely  split 
planks,  which  within  a year  become  black,  and  overgrown 
with  moss  ; and  when  you  enter  them  you  are  at  once  dis- 
gusted, for  every  thing  is  dirty.  "Want  and  hardship  are 
eveiywhere  apparent  among  these  highly  privileged  and  free 
burghers. 


LETTERS  FROJM  SWITZERLAND. 


49 


We  found  here  our  friend,  who  brought  the  unfavorable 
report,  that  it  was  beginning  to  be  injudicious  to  proceed 
farther  with  the  horses.  The  stables  were  eveiywhere  small 
and  narrow,  being  built  only  for  mules  or  sumpter-horses  ; 
oats,  too,  were  rarely  to  be  procured : indeed,  he  was  told, 
that,  higher  up  among  the  mountains,  there  were  none  to 
be  had.  Accordingly  a council  was  held.  Our  friend,  with 
the  horses,  was  to  descend  the  Valais,  and  go  by  Bee, 
Vevay,  Lausanne,  Freiburg,  and  Berne,  to  Lucerne ; while 
the  count  and  I pursued  our  course  up  the  Valais,  and  en- 
deavored to  penetrate  to  Mount  Gothard,  and  then  through 
the  canton  of  Uri,  and  by  the  lake  of  the  Forest  Towns,  like- 
wise make  for  Lucerne.  In  these  parts  you  may  anywhere 
procure  mules,  which  are  better  suited  to  these  roads  than 
horses ; and  to  go  on  foot  is,  after  all,  the  most  agreeable 
mode  of  travel.  Our  friend  is  gone,  and  our  portmanteaus 
packed  on  the  back  of  a mule,  and  so  we  are  now  ready  to 
set  off,  and  make  our  way  on  foot  to  Brieg.  The  sky  has  a 
motley  appearance  : still  I hope  that  the  good  luck  which  has 
hitherto  attended  us,  and  attracted  us  to  this  distant  spot, 
will  not  abandon  us  at  the  very  point  where  we  have  the 
most  need  of  it. 

Brieg,  Nov.  10, 1779. 

Evening. 

Of  to-day’s  expedition  I have  little  to  tell  you,  unless  you 
would  like  to  be  entertained  with  a long  circumstantial 
account  of  the  weather.  About  eleven  o’clock  we  set  off 
from  Leuk,  in  company  with  a Suabiau  butcher’s  boy,  — who 
had  run  away  hither,  and  had  found  a place,  where  he  served 
somewhat  in  the  capacity  of  Hanswurst  (.Jack-pudding) , — 
and  with  our  luggage  packed  on  the  back  of  a mule,  which  its 
master  was  driving  before  him.  Behind  us,  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach,  thick  snow-clouds,  which  came  driving  up  the 
lowlands,  covered  every  thing.  It  was  really  a dull  aspect. 
Without  expressing  my  fears,  I felt  anxious,  lest  — even 
though  right  before  us  it  looked  as  clear  as  it  could  do  in 
the  laud  of  Goshen  — the  clouds  might,  nevertheless,  over- 
take us  ; and  here,  perhaps  in  the  territory  of  the  Valais,  shut 
in  on  both  sides  by  mountains,  we  might  be  covered  with  the 
clouds,  and  in  one  night  snowed  up.  Thus  whispered  alarm, 
which  got  possession  almost  entirely  of  one  ear  : at  the  other, 
good  courage  was  speaking  in  a confident  tone,  and,  reprov- 
ing me  for  want  of  faith,  kept  reminding  me  of  the  past,  and 


60 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


called  my  attention  to  the  phenomena  of  the  atmosphere 
before  ns.  Our  road  went  continually  on  towards  the  fine 
weather.  Up  the  Rhone  all  was  clear  ; and,  although  a strong 
west  wind  kept  driving  the  clouds  behind  us,  they  could  not 
reach  us. 

The  following  was  the  cause  of  this.  Into  the  valley  of 
Valais  there. are,  as  I have  so  often  remarked  already,  run- 
ning down  from  the  neighboring  mountain  chains,  many 
ravines,  which  fall  into  it  like  little  brooks  into  a great 
stream,  as,  indeed,  all  their  waters  flow  off  into  the  Rhone. 
Out  of  each  of  these  openings  rushes  a cuiTent  of  wind, 
which  has  been  fonning  in  the  inner  valleys  and  nooks  of 
the  rocks.  Whenever  the  principal  drift  of  the  clouds  up 
the  valley  reaches  one  of  these  ravines,  the  current  of  the 
wind  does  not  allow  the  clouds  to  pass,  but  contends  with 
them  and  with  the  wind  that  is  diiving  them,  and  thus 
detains  them,  and  disputes  with  them  for  whole  hours  the 
passage  up  the  valley.  This  conflict  we  often  witnessed ; 
and,  when  we  believed  we  should  surely  be  overtaken  by  the 
clouds,  an  obstacle  of  this  kind  would  again  arise  ; and.  after 
we  had  gone  a league,  we  found  they  had  scarcely  stirred 
from  the  spot. 

Towards  evening  the  sky  was  uncommonl}’  beautiful.  As 
we  arrived  at  Brieg,  the  clouds  got  there  almost  as  soon  as 
we : however,  as  the  sun  had  set,  and  a driving  east  wind 
blew  against  them,  they  were  obliged  to  come  to  a halt,  and 
formed  a huge  crescent,  from  mountain  to  .mountain,  across 
the  valley.  The  cold  air  had  greatly  condensed  them  ; and, 
where  their  edge  stood  out  against  the  blue  sky,  it  presented 
to  the  eye  many  beautiful,  light,  and  elegant  fomis.  It  was 
quite  clear  that  the}'  were  heavy  with  snow : however,  the 
fresh  air  seemed  to  us  to  promise  that  much  would  not  fall 
during  the  night. 

Here  we  are  in  a veiy  comfortable  inn  ; and,  what  greatly 
tends  to  make  us  contented,  we  have  found  a roomy  chamber 
with  a stove  in  it,  so  that  we  can  sit  b}'  the  fireside,  and  take 
counsel  together  as  to  our  future  travels.  Through  Brieg 
runs  the  usual  road  to  Ital}’,  over  the  Simplon.  Should  we, 
therefore,  give  up  our  plan  of  going  over  the  Furca  to  Mount 
St.  Gothard,  we  shall  go  with  hmed  horses  and  mules  to 
Domo  d’Ossula,  Margozro,  pass  up  Lago  Maggiore,  and 
then  to  Bellinzona,  and  then  on  to  St.  Gothard,  and  over 
Airolo,  to  the  monastery  of  the  Capuchins.  This  road  is 
passable  all  the  winter  through,  and  good  traveUing  for 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


51 


horses.  However,  to  our  minds  it  is  not  very  inviting, 
especially  as  it  was  not  in  our  original  plan,  and  will  not 
bring  ns  to  Lucerne  till  five  days  after  our  friend.  We  should 
like  better  to  see  the  whole  of  the  Valais  up  to  its  extreme 
limit,  whither  we  hope  to  come  b}^  to-morrow  evening  ; and,  if 
fortune  favors,  we  shall  be  sitting,  by  about  the  same  time 
next  day,  in  Realp,  in  the  canton  of  Uri,  which  is  on  Mount 
Gothard,  and  very  near  to  its  highest  summit.  If  we  then 
find  it  impossible  to  cross  the  Furca,  the  road  back  to  this 
spot  will  stiU  be  open  to  us,  and  we  then  shall  pursue  from 
necessity  what  we  will  not  do  from  choice. 

You  can  well  believe  that  I have  here  closely  examined  the 
people,  whether  they  believe  that  the  passage  over  the  Furca 
is  open  ; for  that  is  the  one  idea  with  which  I rise,  and  lie 
down  to  sleep,  and  occupy  myself  all  day  long.  Hitherto 
our  journey  was  like  a march  directed  against  an  enemy ; 
and  now  it  is  as  if  we  were  approaching  the  spot  where  he 
has  intrenched  himself,  and  we  must  give  him  battle.  Be- 
sides our  mule,  two  horses  are  ordered  to  be  ready  by  the 
evening. 


Munster,  Nov.  11,  1779. 

Evening,  six  o’clock. 

Again  we  have  had  a pleasant  and  prosperous  day.  This 
morning,  as  we  set  out  early  and  in  good  time  from  Brieg, 
our  host,  when  we  were  already  on  the  road,  said,  “If  the 
mountain  (so  they  call  the  Furca  here)  should  prove  too 
fearful,  you  can  easily  come  back,  and  take  another  route.’' 
With  our  two  horses  and  mule  we  soon  came  upon  some 
pleasant  meadows,  where  the  valley  becomes  so  narrow  that 
it  is  scarcely  some  gunshots  wide.  Here  are  some  beautiful 
pasture-lauds,  on  which  stand  large  trees ; while  pieces  of 
rock  lie  scattered  about,  which  have  rolled  down  from  the 
neighboring  mountains.  The  valley  gradually  grows  nar- 
rower ; and  the  traveller  is  forced  to  ascend  along  the  side  of 
the  mountain,  having,  the  while,  the  Rhone  below  him,  in  a 
rugged  ravine  on  his  left.  Above  him,  however,  the  laud  is 
beautifully  spread  out.  Ou  the  variously  undulating  hills  are 
verdant  and  rich  meadows  and  pretty  hamlets,  which,  with 
their  dark-brown  wooden  houses,  peep  out  prettily  from 
among  the  snow.  We  travelled  a good  deal  on  foot,  and  we 
did  so  in  turns  to  accommodate  one  another ; for,  although 
riding  is  safe  enough,  still  it  excites  one’s  alarm  to  see 
another  riding  before  you  along  so  narrow  a track,  and 


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LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


on  so  weak  an  animal,  and  just  on  the  brink  of  so  ragged  a 
precipice.  And,  as  no  cattle  can  be  left  in  the  meadows  (for 
the  people  here  shut  them  all  up  in  sheds  at  this  season), 
such  a country  looks  lonely  ; and  the  thought  that  one  is 
continually  being  hemmed  in  closer  and  closer  by  the  vast 
mountains  fills  the  imagination  with  sombre  and  disagreeable 
fancies,  enough  to  make  you  fall  from  j’our  seat  if  you  are 
not  very  firm  in  the  saddle.  jSIan  is  never  perfectly  master 
of  himself.  As  he  lives  in  utter  ignorance  of  the  future,  as, 
indeed,  what  the  next  moment  may  bring  forth  is  hidden  from 
him,  he  has  often,  when  any  thing  unusual  falls  beneath  his 
notice,  to  contend  with  involuntary  sensations,  forebodings, 
and  di'eam-like  fancies,  at  which  shortly  afterwards  he  may 
laugh  outi-ight,  but  which  at  the  decisive  moment  are  ofien 
extremely  oppressive? 

In  our  noonday  quarters  we  met  with  some  amusement. 
AVe  had  taken  up  our  lodgings  with  a woman  in  whose  house 
every  thing  looked  neat  and  orderly.  Her  room,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  country,  was  wainscoted ; the  beds  orna- 
mented with  carving ; the  cupboards,  tables,  and  aU  the 
other  little  repositories  which  were  fastened  against  the  walls 
or  to  the  corners,  had  pretty  ornaments  of  turner’s  work  or 
carving.  From  the  portraits  which  hung  ai'ound  in  the  room, 
it  was  easy  to  see  that  several  members  of  the  family  had 
devoted  themselves  to  the  clerical  profession.  AVe  also 
observed  over  the  door  a collection  of  bound  books,  which 
we  took  to  be  the  endowment  of  one  of  these  reverend  per- 
sonages. AA"e  took  down  the  “ Legends  of  the  Saints,”  and 
read  it  while  our  meal  was  preparing.  On  one  occasion  of 
our  hostess’  entering  the  room,  she  asked  us  if  we  had  ever 
read  the  history  of  St.  Alexis.  AA'e  said  no.  and  took  no 
further  notice  of  her  question,  but  went  on  reading  the  chap- 
ter we  each  had  begun.  AA'hen,  however,  we  had  sat  down 
to  table,  she  placed  hei’self  by  our  sides,  and  began  again  to 
talk  of  St.  Alexis.  AA"e  asked  her  whether  he  was  her  patron 
saint  or  that  of  her  family  ; which  she  denied,  affirming  at  the 
same  time,  however,  that  this  saintly  person  had  undergone 
so  much  for  the  love  of  God,  that  his  history  always  affected 
her  more  than  anj'  other’s.  AVhen  she  saw  that  we  knew 
nothing  about  him,  she  began  to  tell  us  his  history.  "St. 
Alexis,”  she  said,  “was  the  sou  of  noble,  rich,  and  God- 
fearing parents  in  Rome  ; and  in  the  practice  of  good  works 
he  delighted  to  follow  their  example,  for  they  did  extraor- 
dinary good  to  the  poor.  All  this,  however,  did  not  appear 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


53 


enough  to  Alexis  ; but  he  secretly  devoted  himself  entirely 
to  God’s  service,  and  vowed  to  Christ  perpetual  virginity. 
When,  in  the  course  of  time,  his  parents  wished  to  many 
him  to  a lovely  and  amiable  maiden,  he  did  not  oppose  their 
will,  and  the  marriage  ceremony  was  concluded  ; but,  instead 
of  retiring  to  his  bed  in  the  nuptial  chamber,  he  went  on 
board  a vessel  which  he  found  ready  to  sail,  and  with  it 
passed  over  to  Asia.  Here  he  assumed  the  garb  of  a 
wretched  mendicant,  and  became  so  thoroughly  disguised, 
that  the  servants  of  his  father  who  had  been  sent  after  him 
failed  to  recognize  him.  Here  he  posted  himself  near  the 
door  of  the  principal  church,  invariably  attending  the  divine 
services,  and  supporting  himself  on  the  alms  of  the  faithful. 
After  two  or  three  years,  various  miracles  took  place,  be- 
tokening the  special  favor  of  the  Almighty.  In  the  church, 
the  bishop  heard  a voice  bidding  him  summon  into  the  sacred 
temple  that  man  whose  praj^er  was  most  acceptable  to  God, 
and  to  keep  him  by  his  side  while  he  celebrated  divine  wor- 
ship. As  the  bishop  did  not  at  once  know  who  could  be 
meant,  the  voice  went  on  to  announce  to  him  the  beggar, 
whom,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  the  people,  he  imme- 
diately fetched  into  the  church.  St.  Alexis,  embarrassed  by 
having  the  attention  of  the  people  directed  to  him,  quietly 
and  silently  departed,  also  on  shipboard,  intending  to  pro- 
ceed still  farther  abroad.  But,  by  a tempest  and  other  ch'- 
cumstances,  he  was  compelled  to  land  in  Italy.  The  saint, 
seeing  in  all  this  the  finger  of  God,  was  rejoiced  to  meet 
with  an  opportunity  of  exercising  self-denial  in  the  highest 
degree.  He  therefore  set  off  direct  for  his  native  town,  and 
placed  himself  as  a beggar  at  the  door  of  his  parents’  house. 
With  their  usual  pious  benevolence  did  they  receive  him,  and 
commanded  one  of  their  servants  to  furnish  him  with  lodging 
in  the  castle  and  with  all  necessary  sustenance.  This  ser- 
vant, annoyed  at  the  trouble  he  was  put  to,  and  displeased 
with  his  master’s  benevolence,  assigned  to  this  seeming  beg- 
gar a miserable  hole  under  some  stone  steps,  where  he  threw 
to  him,  as  to  a dog,  a sorry  pittance  of  food.  The  saint, 
instead  of  suffering  himself  to  be  vexed  thereat,  first  of  all 
thanked  God  sincerely  for  it  in  his  heart,  and  not  only  bore 
with  patient  meekness  all  this,  which  he  might  easily  have 
altered,  but,  with  incredible  and  superhuman  fortitude,  en- 
dured to  witness  the  lasting  grief  of  his  parents  and  his 
wife  for  his  absence.  For  he  heard  his  much-loved  parents 
and  his  beautiful  spouse  invoke  his  name  a hundred  times  a 


54 


LETTERS  FROM  SAVITZERLAXD. 


clay,  and  pray  for  bis  return,  and  be  saw  them  waste  tbeir 
days  in  sorrow  for  bis  supposed  absence.”  At  this  passage 
of  ber  nan-ative  our  good  hostess  could  not  refrain  ber  tears  ; 
while  ber  two  daughters,  who  ditriug  the  story  had  crept 
close  to  her  side,  kept  steadily  looking  up  in  theii-mother’s 
face.  “ But,”  she  continued,  “ great  was  the  reward  which 
the  Almighty  bestowed  on  his  constancy,  giving  him,  at  his 
death,  the  greatest  possible  proofs  of  his  favor  in  the  eyes 
of  the  faithful.  For  after  living  several  years  in  this  state, 
daily  frequenting  the  service  of  God  with  the  most  fervent 
zeal,  he  at  last  fell  sick,  without  any  particular  heed  being 
given  to  his  condition  by  any  one.  One  morning  shortly 
after  this,  while  the  Pope  was  himself  celebrating  high  mass, 
in  the  presence  of  the  emperor  and  all  the  nobles,  suddenly 
all  the  bells  in  the  whole  city  of  Rome  began  to  toll,  as  if 
for  the  passing  knell  of  some  distinguished  personage. 
AVhilst  every  one  was  full  of  amazement,  it  was  revealed  to 
the  Pope  that  this  man'el  was  in  honor  of  the  death  of  the 
holiest  person  in  the  whole  city,  who  had  but  just  died  in  the 
house  of  the  noble  patrician.  The  father  of  Alexis,  being 
interrogated,  thought  at  once  of  the  beggar.  He  went  home, 
and  found  him  beneath  the  stairs,  quite  dead.  In  his  folded 
hands  the  saintly  man  clutched  a paper,  which  his  old  father 
sought  in  vain  to  take  from  him.  He  returned  to  the  church, 
and  told  aU  this  to  the  emperor  and  the  Pope,  who  thereupon, 
with  their  courtiers  and  clergy,  set  off  to  visit  the  corpse  of 
the  saint.  When  they  reached  the  spot,  the  holy  father 
took  the  paper  without  difficulty  out  of  the  hands  of  the 
dead  man,  and  handed  it  to  the  emperor,  who  thereupon 
caused  it  to  be  read  aloud  b}'  his  chancellor.  The  paper 
contained  the  history  of  the  saint.  Then  you  should  have 
seen  the  grief  of  his  parents  and  wife,  which  now  became 
excessive,  — to  think  that  they  had  had  near  to  them  a son 
and  husband  so  dear,  for  whom  there  was  nothing  too  good 
that  they  would  not  have  done  ; and  then,  too,  to  know  how 
ill  he  had  been  treated  ! They  fell  upon  his  corpse  and  wept 
so  bitterly,  that  there  was  not  one  of  the  bystanders  who 
could  refrain  from  tears.  Moreover,  among  the  multitude 
of  the  people  who  gradually  flocked  to  the  spot,  there  were 
many  sick,  who  were  brought  to  the  bod}-,  and  by  its  touch 
were  made  whole.” 

When  she  had  finished  her  story,  she  affirmed  over  and 
over  again,  as  she  dried  her  eyes,  that  she  had  never  heard 
a more  touching  history  ; and  I,  too,  was  seized  with  so  great 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


55 


a desire  to  weep,  that  I had  the  greatest  difficulty  to  hide 
and  suppress  it.  After  dinner  I looked  out  the  legend  itself 
in  “Father  Cochem,”  and  found  that  the  good  dame  had 
dropped  none  of  the  purely  human  traits  of  the  story,  while 
she  had  clean  forgotten  all  the  tasteless  remarks  of  this 
writer. 

We  keep  going  continually  to  the  window,  watching  the 
weather,  and  are  at  present  very  near  offering  a prayer  to 
the  wind  and  clouds.  Long  evenings  and  universal  stillness 
are  the  elements  in  which  writing  thrives  right  merrily  ; and 
I am  convinced,  tliat  if,  for  a few  months  only,  I could  con- 
trive, or  were  obliged,  to  stay  at  a spot  like  this,  all  my 
unfinished  dramas  would  of  necessity  be  completed  one  after 
another. 

We  have  already  had  several  people  before  us,  and  ques- 
tioned them  with  regard  to  the  pass  over  the  Furca ; but 
even  here  we  have  been  unable  to  gain  any  precise  informa- 
tion, although  the  mountain  is  only  two  or  three  leagues 
distant.  We  must,  however,  rest  contented ; and  we  shall 
set  ourselves  at  break  of  day  to  reconnoitre,  and  see  how 
destiny  will  decide  for  us.  However,  in  general,  I may  be 
disposed  to  take  things  as  they  go,  it  would,  I must  confess, 
be  highly  annoying  to  me  if  we  should  be  forced  to  retrace 
our  steps  again.  If  we  are  fortunate,  we  shall  be  by  to-mor- 
row evening  at  Realp  or  St.  Gothard,  and  by  noon  the 
next  day  among  the  Capuchins,  at  the  summit  of  the  moun- 
tain. If  things  go  unfortunately,  we  have  two  roads  open 
for  a retreat,  — back  through  the  whole  of  Valais,  and  by 
the  well-known  road  over  Berne  to  Lucerne  ; or  back  to 
Brieg,  and  then  by  a wide  detour  to  St.  Gothard.  I think 
in  this  short  letter  I have  told  you  three  times.  But  in  fact 
it  is  a matter  of  great  importance  to  us.  The  issue  will  de- 
cide which  was  in  the  right,  — our  courage,  which  gave  us  a 
confidence  that  we  must  succeed,  or  the  prudence  of  certain 
persons  who  were  very  earnest  in  trying  to  dissuade  us  from 
attempting  this  route.  This  much,  at  any  rate,  is  certain, 
that  both  prudence  and  courage  must  own  chance  to  be  over 
them  both.  And  now  that  we  have  once  more  examined  the 
weather,  and  found  the  air  to  be  cold,  the  sky  bright,  and 
without  any  signs  of  a tendency  to  snow,  we  shall  go  calmly 
to  bed. 


56 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


Mjnster,  Nov.  12,  1776. 

Six  o’clock  in  the  morning. 

We  are  quite  ready,  and  all  is  packed  up  in  order  to  set 
out  hence  with  the  break  of  day.  We  have  before  us  two 
leagues  to  Oberwald,  and  from  there  the  usual  reckoning 
makes  six  leagues  to  Realp.  Our  mule  is  to  foUow  us  with 
the  baggage  as  far  as  it  is  possible  to  take  him. 

Eealp,  Nov.  12, 1779. 

Evening. 

We  reached  this  place  just  at  nightfall.  We  have  sur- 
mounted all  difficulties,  and  the  knots  which  entangled  our 
path  have  been  cut  in  two.  Before  I tell  you  where  we  are 
lodged,  and  before  I describe  to  you  the  character  of  our 
hosts,  all  -w  me  the  gratification  of  going  over  in  thought  the 
road  which  we  did  not  see  before  us  without  anxiety,  but 
which  we;  have  left  behind  us  without  accident,  though  not 
without  difficulty.  About  seven  we  started  from  Munster, 
and  saw, before  us  the  snow-covered  amphitheatre  of  moun- 
tain summits,  and  took  to  be  the  Furca  the  mountain  which 
in  the  background  stood  obliquely  before  it.  But,  as  we  after- 
wards let  rued,  we  made  a mistake : it  was  concealed  from  ; 
our  view  by  the  mountains  on  our  left  and  by  high  clouds.  , 
The  east  wind  blew  strong,  and  fought  with  some  snow-  ; 
clouds,  cl  asing  the  drifts,  now  over  the  mountains,  now  up  !• 
the  valley . But  this  onl}’  made  the  snow-drifts  deeper  on  the  • 
ground,  and  caused  us  several  times  to  miss  our  way ; | 
although,  shut  in  as  we  were  on  both  sides,  we  could  not  fail  . 
of  reaching  Oberwald  eventually.  About  nine  we  actually  ' 
got  there  ; and,  when  we  dropped  in  at  an  inn,  its  inmates-  i 
were  not  a little  surprised  to  see  such  characters  appear  there  j 
this  time  of  the  year.  We  asked  whether  the  pass  over  the 
Furca  were  still  practicable  ; and  they  answered,  that  their  ; 
folk  crossed  for  the  greater  part  of  the  winter,  but  whether  ‘ 
we  should  be  able  to  get  across,  they  could  not  tell.  We  I 
immediately  sent  for  some  of  these  persons  to  be  our  guides.  1 
There  soon  appeared  a strong,  thick-set  peasant,  whose  A'cry  i 
look  and  shape  inspired  confidence.  With  him  we  imme- 
diately began  to  treat : if  he  thought  the  pass  was  practi-  ■ 
cable  for  us,  let  him  say  so,  and  then  take  one  or  more  j 
comrades  and  come  with  us.  After  a short  pause  he  agreed,  ] 
and  went  away  to  get  ready  and  to  fetch  the  others.  In  the  J 
mean  time  we  paid  our  muleteer  the  hire  of  his  beast,  since  : 
we  could  no  longer  make  any  use  of  his  mule  ; and  having  : 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


57 


eaten  some  bread  and  cheese,  and  drank  a glass  of  red  wine, 
felt  full  of  strength  and  spirits,  as  our  guide  came  back, 
followed  by  another  man,  who  looked  still  bigger  and  stronger, 
and,  seeming  to  have  all  the  strength  and  courage  of  a horse, 
he  quickly  shouldered  our  portmanteau.  And  nov.'-  we  set 
out,  a party  of  five,  through  the  village,  and  soon  reached 
the  foot  of  the  mountain,  which  lay  on  our  left,  ? d began 
gradually  to  ascend  it.  At  first  we  had  to  follow  a beaten 
track  which  came  down  from  a neighboring  Alp  : soon,  how- 
ever, this  came  to  an  end,  and  we  had  to  go  up  the  mountain 
side  through  the  snow.  Our  guides,  with  great  skill,  tracked 
their  way  among  the  rocks  around  which  the  usual  path 
winds,  although  the  deep  and  smooth  snow  had  covered  all 
alike.  Still  our  road  lay  through  a forest  of  pi’^'es,  while 
the  Rhone  flowed  beneath  us  in  a narrow,  unfruiblil  valley. 
Into  it  we  also,  after  a little  while,  had  to  descend;  and,  by 
crossing  a little  foot-bridge,  we  came  in  sight  of  the  glacier 
of  the  Rhone.  It  is  the  hugest  we  have  as  yet  had  so  full  a 
view  of.  Being  of  very  great  breadth,  it  occupies  the  whole 
saddle  of  the  mountain,  and  descends  uninterruptt  dly  down 
to  the  point,  where,  in  the  valley,  the  Rhone  flows‘out  of  it. 
At  this  source  the  people  tell  us  it  has  for  several  years  been 
decreasing.  But  that  is  as  nothing  compared, with  ad  the  rest 
of  the  huge  mass.  Although  every  thing  was  full  of  snow, 
still  the  rough  crags  of  ice,  on  which  the  wind  did  not  allow 
the  snow  to  lie,  were  visible  with  their  dark-blue  fissures,  and 
you  could  see  clearly  where  the  glacier  ended  and  the  snow- 
covered  rock  began.  To  this  point,  which  lay  on  our  left, 
we  came  very  close.  Presently  we  again  reached  a light 
foot-bridge  over  a little  mountain-stream,  which  flowed 
through  a barren,  trough-shaped  valley  to  join  the  Rhone. 
After  passing  the  glacier,  neither  on  the  right,  nor  on  the 
left,  nor  before  you,  was  there  a tree  to  be  seen  : all  was  one 
desolate  waste,  — no  rugged  and  prominent  rocks,  nothing 
but  long  smooth  valleys,  slightly  inclining  eminences,  which 
now,  in  the  snow,  which  levelled  all  inequalities,  presented  to 
us  their  simple,  unbroken  surfaces.  Turning  now  to  the  left, 
we  ascended  a mountain,  sinking  at  every  step  deep  in  the 
snow.  One  of  our  guides  had  to  go  first,  and,  boldl}'  tread- 
ing down  the  snow,  break  the  way  by  which  we  were  to  follow. 

It  was  a strange  sight,  when,  turning  for  a moment  your 
attention  from  the  road,  you  directed  it  to  yourself  and  your 
fellow-travellers.  In  the  most  desolate  region  of  the  world, 
in  a boundless,  monotonous  wilderness  of  mountains  enveT 


58 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


oped  in  snow,  where,  for  three  leagues  before  and  behind, 
you  would  not  expect  to  meet  a living  soul,  while  on  both 
sides  you  had  the  deep  hollows  of  a web  of  mountains,  you 
might  see  a line  of  men  wending  their  way,  treading  each  in  1 
the  deep  footsteps  of  the  one  before  him,  and  where,  in  the  j 
whole  of  the  wide  expanse  thus  smoothed  over,  the  eye  I 
could  discern  nothing  but  the  track  they  left  behind  them.  I 
The  hollows  as  we  left  them  laj'  behind  us  gray  and  bound-  ' 
less  in  the  mist.  The  changing  clouds  continually  passed  | 
over  the  pale  disk  of  the  sun,  and  spread  over  the  whole  | 
scene  a perpetually  moving  veil.  I am  convinced  that  any  | 
one,  who,  while  pursuing  this  route,  allowed  his  imagination  ; 
to  gain  the  mastery,  would,  even  in  the  absence  of  all  imme- 
diate danger,  fall  a victim  to  his  own  apprehensions  and 
fears.  In  reality',  there  is  little  or  no  risk  of  a fall  here.  The 
great  danger  is  from  the  avalanches,  when  the  snow  has 
become  deeper  than  it  is  at  present,  and  begins  to  roll. 
However,  our  guide  told  us  that  they  cross  the  mountains 
throughout  the  winter,  cariying  from  Valais  to  St.  Gothard 
skins  of  the  chamois,  in  which  a considerable  trade  is  carried 
on  here.  But  then,  to  avoid  the  avalanches,  they  do  not  take 
the  route  that  we  did,  but  remain  for  some  time  longer  in 
the  broad  valley,  and  then  go  straight  up  the  mountain.  This 
road  is  safer,  but  much  more  ineouveuieut.  After  a march 
of  about  three  hours  and  a half,  we  reached  the  saddle  of  the 
Furca,  near  the  cross  which  marks  the  boundary  of  Valais 
and  Uri.  Even  here  we  could  not  distinguish  the  double 
peak  from  which  the  Furca  derives  its  name.  We  now  hoped 
for  an  easier  descent ; but  our  guides  soon  announced  to  us 
still  deeper  snow,  as  we  immediate^  found  it  to  be.  Our 
march  continued  in  single  file,  as  before  ; and  the  foremost 
man,  who  broke  the  path,  often  sank  up  to  his  waist  in  the 
snow.  The  readiness  of  the  people,  and  their  light  way  of 
speaking  of  matters,  served  to  keep  up  our  courage ; and 
I will  say,  for  myself,  that  I have  accomplished  the  journey 
without  fatigue,  although  I cannot  say  that  it  was  a mere 
walk.  The  huntsman  Hermann  asserted  that  he  had  often 
before  met  with  equally  deep  snow  in  the  forests  of  Thu- 
ringia ; but  at  last  he  could  not  help  bursting  out  with  a loud 
exclamation,  “ The  Furca  is  a ” — 

A vulture,  or  lamniergeycr,  swept  over  our  heads  with 
incredible  rapidity.  It  was  the  only  living  thing  that  we  had 
met  with  in  this  waste.  In  the  distance  we  saw  the  moun- 
tains of  the  Ursi  lighted  up  with  the  bright  sunshine.  Our 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


59 


guides  wished  to  enter  a shepherd’s  hut  which  had  been 
abandoned  and  snowed  up,  and  to  take  something  to  eat ; but 
we  urged  them  to  go  onwards  to  avoid  standing  still  in  the 
cold.  Here,  again,  is  another  group  of  valleys  ; and  at  last 
we  gained  an  open  view  into  the  Valley  of  the  Ursi. 

We  now  proceeded  at  a shorter  pace  ; and,  after  travelling 
about  three  leagues  and  a half  from  the  cross,  we  saw  the 
scattered  roofs  of  Realp.  We  had  several  times  questioned 
our  guides  as  to  what  sort  of  an  inn,  and  wjjat  kind  of  wine, 
we  were  likely  to  find  in  Realp.  The  hopes  they  gave  us 
were  any  thing  but  good ; but  they  assured  us  that  the 
Capuchins  there,  .although  they  had  not,  like  those  on  the 
summit  of  St.  Gothard,  an  hospice,  were  in  the  habit  of 
entertaining  strangers.  We  should  there  get  some  good  red 
wine,  and  better  food  than  at  an  inn.  We  therefore  sent 
one  of  our  party  forward  to  inform  the  Capuchins  of  our 
arrival,  and  procure  a lodging  for  us.  We  did  not  loiter 
long  behind,  and  arrived  very  soon  after  him,  when  we  were 
received  at  the  door  by  one  of  the  fathers,  — a portly,  good- 
looking  man.  With  much  friendliness  of  manner  he  invited 
us  to  enter,  and  at  the  threshold  begged  that  we  would  put 
up  with  such  entertainment  as  they  could  offer,  since  at  no 
time,  and  least  of  all  at  this  season  of  the  year,  were  they 
prepared  to  receive  such  guests.  He  therefore  led  us  into  a 
warm  room,  and  was  very  busy  waiting  upon  us,  while  we 
took  off  our  boots,  and  changed  our  linen.  He  begged  us 
once  for  all  to  make  ourselves  perfectly  at  home.  As  to  our 
meat,  we  must,  he  said,  be  indulgent ; for  they  were  in  the 
middle  of  their  long  fast,  which  would  last  till  Christmas  Day. 
We  assured  him  that  a warm  room,  a bit  of  bread,  and  a 
glass  of  red  wine,  would,  in  our  present  circumstances,  fully 
satisfy  all  our  wishes.  He  procured  us  what  we  asked  for ; 
and  we  had  scarcely  refreshed  ourselves  a little,  ere  he  began 
to  recount  to  us  all  that  concerned  the  establishment,  and 
the  settlement  of  himself  and  fellows,  on  this  waste  spot. 
“We  have  not,’’  he  said,  “an  hospice,  like  the  fathers  on 
Mount  St.  Gothard : we  are  here  in  the  capacity  of  parish 
priests,  and  there  are  three  of  us.  The  duty  of  preaching 
falls  to  my  lot ; the  second  father  has  to  look  after  the 
school ; and  the  brother,  after  the  household.’’  He  went  on 
to  describe  their  hardships  and  toils,  here,  at  the  farthest 
end  of  a lonely  valley,  separated  from  all  the  world,  and 
working  hard  to  ver}'  little  profit.  This  spot,  like  all  others, 
was  formerly  provided  with  a secular  priest ; but,  an  ava- 


60 


LETTERS  FROxM  SWITZERLAND. 


lanclie  having  buried  half  of  the  village,  the  last  one  had  run 
away,  and  taken  the  pyx  with  him,  whereupon  he  was  sus- 
pended, and  they,  of  whom  more  resignation  was  expected, 
were  sent  there  in  his  place. 

In  order  to  write  all  this,  I had  retired  to  an  upper  room, 
which  is  warmed  from  below  by  a hole  in  the  floor ; and  I 
have  just  received  an  intimation  that  dinner  is  ready,  which, 
notwithstanding  our  luncheon,  is  right  welcome  news. 


Abont  nine. 

The  fathers,  priests,  servants,  guides,  and  all,  took  then- 
dinner  together  at  a common  table.  The  brother,  however, 
who  superintended  the  cooking,  did  not  make  his  appearance 
till  dinner  was  nearly  over.  Out  of  milk,  eggs,  and  flour  he 
had  compounded  a variet}^  of  dishes,  which  we.  tasted  one 
after  another,  and  found  them  all  very  good.  Our  guides, 
who  took  great  pleasure  in  speaking  of  the  successful  issue 
of  our  expedition,  praised  us  for  our  uncommon  dexterity  in 
travelling,  and  assured  us  that  it  was  not  every  one  that  they 
would  have  undertaken  the  task  of  being  guides  to.  They 
even  confessed,  also,  that  this  morning,  when  their  services 
were  required,  one  had  gone  first  to  reconnoitre,  and  to  see 
if  we  looked  like  people  who  would  reall}-  go  through  all 
difficulties  , with  them ; for  they  were  particularly  cautious 
how  they  accompanied  old  or  weak  people  at  this  time  of  the 
year,  since  it  was  their  duty  to  take  over  in  safety  every  one 
they  had  once  engaged  to  guide,  being  bound,  in  case  of  his 
falling  sick,  to  carry  him,  even  though  it  should  be  at  the 
imminent  risk  of  their  own  lives,  and,  if  he  were  to  die  ou 
the  passage,  not  to  leave  his  body  behind.  This  confession 
at  once  opened  the  flood-gates  to  a host  of  anecdotes  ; and 
each,  in  turn,  had  his  story  to  tell  of  the  difficulties  and 
dangers  of  wandering  over  the  mountains  amidst  which  the 
people  had  here  to  live  as  in  their  proper  element ; so  that 
with  the  greatest  indifference  they  speak  of  mischances  and 
accidents  to  which  they  themselves  are  daily  liable.  One  of 
them  told  a stoiy  of  how,  on  the  Candersteg,  on  his  way  to 
Mount  Gemini,  he  and  a comrade  with  him  (he  is  mentioned 
on  every  occasion  with  both  Christian  and  surname)  found 
a poor  family  in  the  deep  snow,  the  mother  dying,  her  boy 
half  dead,  and  the  father  in  that  state  of  indifference  which 
verges  on  a total  prostration  of  intellect.  He  took  the 
woman  on  his  back,  and  his  comr.ade  her  son  ; and.  thus  laden. 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


61 


they  bad  driven  before  them  the  father,  who  was  unwilling 
to  move  from  the  spot. 

During  the  descent  of  Gemmi  the  woman  died  on  his  back  ; 
but  he  brought  her,  dead  as  she  was,  to  Leukerbad.  When 
we  asked  what  sort  of  people  they  were,  and  what  could  have 
brought  them  at  such  a season  into  the  mountains,  he  said 
they  were  poor  people  of  the  canton  of  Berne,  who,  driven 
by  want,  had  taken  to  the  road  at  an  unseasonable  period  of 
the  year,  in  the  hope  of  finding  some  relations  either  in 
Valais  or  the  Italian  canton,  and  had  been  overtaken  by  a 
snow-storm.  Moreover,  they  told  many  anecdotes  of  what 
had  happened  to  themselves  during  the  winter  journeys  over 
the  Furca  with  the  chamois-skins  ; on  which  expeditions, 
however,  they  always  travelled  in  companies.  Every  now 
and  then  our  reverend  host  would  make  excuses  for  the 
dinner,  and  we  redoubled  our  assurances  that  we  wished  for 
nothing  better.  AVe  also  found  that  he  contrived  to  bring 
back  the  conversation  to  himself  and  his  own  matters, 
observing  that  he  had  not  been  long  in  this  place.  He  began 
to  talk  of  the  office  of  preaching  and  of  the  skill  that  a 
preacher  ought  to  have.  He  compared  the  good  preacher  to 
a ehapman  who  cleverly  puffs  his  wares,  and  by  his  pleasant 
words  makes  himself  agreeable  to  his  customers.  After 
dinner  he  kept  up  the  conversation  ; and,  as  he  stood  with  his 
left  hand  leaning  on  the  table,  he  accompanied  his  remarks 
with  his  right,  and,  while  he  discoursed  most  eloquently  on 
eloquence,  appeared  at  the  moment  as  if  he  wished  to  con- 
vince us  that  he  himself  was  the  clever  chapman.  AVe 
assented  to  his  observations,  and  he  came  from  the  lecture  to 
the  thing  itself.  He  panegyrized  the  Roman-Catholic  reli- 
gion. “ AVe  must,”  he  said,  “ have  a rule  of  faith  ; and  the 
great  value  of  if  consists  in  its  being  fixed,  and  as  little  as 
possible  liable  to  change.  AVe,”  he  said,  “ had  made  Scrip- 
ture the  foundation  of  our  faith  ; but  it  was  insufficient.  AVe 
ourselves  would  not  venture  to  put  it  into  the  hands  of  com- 
mon men ; for  holy  as  it  is,  and  full  as  every  leaf  is  of  the 
Spirit  of  God,  still  the  worldly-minded  man  is  insensible  of 
all  this,  and  finds  rather  perplexities  and  stumbling-blocks 
throughout.  AVhat  good  can  a mere  layman  extraet  from 
the  histories  of  sinful  men  which  are  contained  therein,  and 
which  the  Holy  Ghost  has  there  recorded  for  the  strengthen- 
ing of  the  faith  of  the  tried  and  experienced  children  of  God  ? 
What  benefit  can  a common  man  draw  from  all  this,  when 
|ie  is  unable  to  consider  the  whole  context  and  connection  ? 


62 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


How  is  such  a person  to  see  his  way  clear  out  of  the  seeming 
contradictions  which  occasionally  occur,  out  of  the  diffi- 
culties which  arise  from  the  ill  arrangement  of  the  books,  and 
the  differences  of  style,  when  the  learned  themselves  find  it 
so  hard,  and  while  so  many  passages  make  them  hold  their 
reason  in  abeyance?  What  ought  we,  therefore,  to  teach? 
A rule  of  faith  founded  on  Scripture,  and  proved  by  the  best 
of  commentaries?  But  who,  then,  is  to  comment  upon  Scrip- 
ture? Who  is  to  set  up  this  rule?  I,  perhaps,  or  some  other 
man?  By  no  means.  Every  man  has  his  own  way  of  taking 
and  seeing  things,  and  represents  them  after  his  own  ideas. 
That  would  be  to  give  to  the  people  as  many  systems  of 
doctrines  as  there  are  heads  in  the  world,  and  to  produce 
inexplicable  confusion,  as  indeed  had  ah’eady  been  done.  No : 
it  remains  for  the  Holy  Church  alone  to  interpret  Scripture, 
to  determine  the  rule  by  which  the  souls  of  men  are  to 
be  guided  and  governed.  And  what  is  the  Church?  It  is 
not  any  single  supreme  head,  or  any  particular  member  alone. 
No  ! it  is  all  the  holiest,  most  learned,  and  most  experienced 
men  of  all  times,  who,  with  the  co-operation  of  the  Holy 
Spirit,  have  successively  combined  in  building  up  that  great, 
universal,  and  agreeing  body,  which  has  its  great  councils  for 
its  members  to  communicate  their  thoughts  to  one  another, 
and  for  mutual  edification  ; which  banishes  error,  and  there- 
by imparts  to  our  holy  religion  a certainty  and  a stability 
such  as  no  other  profession  can  pretend  to,  and  gives  it  a 
foundation,  and  strengthens  it  with  bulwarks  which  even 
hell  cannot  overthrow.  And  just  so  it  is  with  the  text  of 
the  Sacred  Scriptures.  We  have,”  he  said,  ‘“the  Vulgate, 
moreover,  an  approved  version  of  the  Vulgate,  and  of  every 
sentence  a commentary  which  the  Church  itself  has  accred- 
ited. Hence  arises  that  uniformity  of  our  teaching  which 
surprises  every  one.  Whether,”  he  continued,  “you  hear 
me  preach  in  this  most  remote  corner  of  the  world,  or,  in  the 
great  capital  of  a distant  country,  are  listening  to  the  dullest 
or  cleverest  of  preachers,  all  will  hold  one  and  the  same  lan- 
guage. A Catholic  Christian  will  always  hear  the  same  doc- 
trine : everywhere  will  he  be  instructed  and  edified  in  the 
same  manner.  And  this  is  what  constitutes  the  certainty  of 
our  faith,  what  gives  us  the  peace  and  confidence  by  which 
we  in  life  hold  sure  communion  with  our  brother  Catholics, 
and  at  death  w“e  can  calmly  part  in  the  sure  hope  of  meeting 
one  another  again.” 

In  his  speech,  as  in  a sermon,  he  let  the  subjects  follow  in 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


63 


clue  order,  aud  spoke  more  from  an  inward  feeling  of  satisfac- 
tion that  be  was  exhibiting  himself  under  a favorable  aspect 
than  from  any  bigoted  anxiety  for  conversion.  During  the 
delivery  he  would  occasionally  change  the  arm  he  rested  upon, 
or  draw  them  both  into  the  arms  of  his  gown,  or  let  them  rest 
on  his  portly  stomach  ; now  and  then  he  would,  with  much 
grace,  draw  his  snuff-box  out  of  his  capote,  and,  after  using 
it,  replace  it  with  a careless  ease.  We  listened  to  him  atten- 
tively, and  he  seemed  to  be  quite  content  with  our  way  of 
receiving  his  instructions.  How  greatly  amazed  would  he 
have  been  if  an  angel  had  revealed  to  him  at  the  moment, 
that  he  was  addressing  his  peroration  to  a descendant  of 
Frederick  the  Wise ! 


Nov.  13,  1779. 

Among  the  Capuchins,  on  the  summit  of  Mount  St.  Gothard. 

Morning,  about  ten  o’clock. 

At  last  we  have  fortunately  reached  the  utmost  limits  of 
our  journey.  Here  it  is  determined  we  shall  rest  a while,  and 
then  turn  our  steps  towards  our  dear  fatherland.  V ery  strange 
are  my  feelings  here,  on  this  summit,  where,  four  years  ago,  I 
passed  a few  days  with  very  different  anxieties,  sentiments, 
plans,  and  hopes,  and  at  a very  different  season  of  the  year, 
when,  without  any  foreboding  of  my  future  fortunes,  but 
moved  by  I know  not  what,  I turned  my  back  upon  Italy,  and 
ignorantly  went  to  meet  my  present  destiny.  I did  not  even 
recognize  the  house  again.  Some  time  ago  it  was  greatly 
' injured  by  an  avalanche  ; and  the  good  fathers  took  advantage 
of  this  opportunity,  and  made  a collection  throughout  the 
I canton  for  enlarging  and  improving  their  residence.  Both  of 
the  two  fathers  who  reside  here  at  present  are  absent ; but, 
; as  I hear,  they  are  still  the  same  that  I met  four  years  ago. 
Father  Seraphin,  who  has  now  passed  fourteen  years  in  this 
1 post,  is  at  present  at  Milan  ; and  the  other  is  expected  to-day 
from  Airolo.  In  this  clear  atmosphere  the  cold  is  awful, 
i As  soon  as  dinner  is  over,  I will  continue  my  letter ; for  I 
see  clearly  we  shall  not  go  far  outside  the  door. 


After  dinner. 

It  is  getting  colder  and  colder.  One  does  not  like  to  stir 
. from  the  stove.  Indeed,  it  is  most  delightful  to  sit  upon  it, 
which  in  this  country,  where  the  stoves  are  made  of  stone 
Tiles,  it  is  very  easy  to  do  so.  First  of  all,  therefore,  we  will 


64 


LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


tell  you  of  our  departure  from  Realp,  and  then  of  our  jour- 
ney hither. 

Yesterday  evening,  before  ve  retired  to  our  beds,  the  good 
father  would  show  us  his  bedroom,  where  every  thing  was  in 
nice  order,  in  a very  small  space.  Ilis  bed,  which  consisted 
of  a bag  of  straw,  with  a woollen  coA’erlid,  did  not  appear  to 
ns  to  be  any  thing  very  meritorious,  as  we  ourselves  had  often 
put  up  with  no  better.  With  great  pleasure  and  internal  sat- 
isfaction he  showed  us  every  thing,  — his  book-case  and  all 
other  things.  We  praised  all  that  we  saw  ; and,  parting  on 
the  best  terms  with  each  other,  we  retired  for  the  night.  In 
furnishing  our  room,  in  order  that  two  beds  might  stand 
against  one  wall,  both  had  been  made  unusually  small.  This 
inconvenience  kept  me  long  awake,  until  I thought  of  reme- 
dying it  by  placing  four  chairs  together.  It  was  quite  broad 
daylight  before  we  awoke  this  morning.  When  we  went 
down,  we  found  nothing  but  happy  and  friendly  faces.  Our 
guides,  on  the  point  of  entering  upon  their  return  over  yes- 
terday’s beautiful  route,  seemed  to  look  upon  it  as  an  epoch, 
and  as  a history  with  which  hereafter  the}’  would  be  able  to 
entertain  other  strangers  ; and,  as  they  were  well  paid,  the 
idea  of  an  adventure  became  complete  in  their  minds.  After 
this,  we  made  a capital  breakfast,  and  departed. 

Our  road  now  lay  through  the  Valley  of  the  LTi,  which  is 
remarkable  as  having,  at  so  great  an  elevation,  such  beautiful 
meadows,  and  pasturage  for  cattle.  They  make  here  a cheese 
which  I prefer  to  all  others.  No  trees,  however,  grow  here. 
Sally-bushes  line  all  the  brooks,  and  on  the  mountains  little 
shrubs  grow  thickly  together.  Of  all  the  countries  that  I 
know,  this  is  to  me  the  loveliest  and  most  interesting,  — 
whether  it  is  that  old  recollections  make  it  precious  to  me.  or 
that  the  reception  of  such  a long  chain  of  Nature’s  wonders 
excites  within  me  a secret  and  inexpressible  feeling  of  enjoy- 
ment. I take  it  for  granted  that  you  bear  in  mind  that  the 
whole  country  through  which  I am  leading  you  is  covered 
with  snow,  and  that  rock  and  meadow  alike  are  snowed  over. 
The  sky  has  been  quite  clear,  without  a single  cloud ; the  hue 
far  deeper  than  one  is  accustomed  to  see  in  low  and  flat 
countries  ; and  the  white  mountain-ridges,  which  stood  out  in 
strong  contrast  to  it,  were  either  glittering  in  the  sunshine,  or 
else  took  a grayish  tint  in  the  shade. 

In  an  hour  and  a half  we  reached  Hopital,  — a little  village 
within  the  Canton  of  Uri,  which  lies  on  the  road  to  St.  Go- 
thard.  Here,  at  last,  I regained  the  track  of  my  fonner  tour. 


»♦  . * 


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LETTERS  FROM  SWITZERLAND. 


65 


We  entered  an  inn,  and,  though  it  was  as  yet  morning,  or- 
dered a dinner,  and  soon  afterward  began  to  ascend  the  sum- 
mit. A long  train  of  mules,  with  their  bells,  enlivened  the 
whole  region.  Ijt  is  a sound  which  awakens  all  one’s  recol- 
lections of  mountain  scenery.  The  greater  part  of  the  train 
was  in  advance  of  us,  and,  with  their  sharp  iron  shoes,  had 
pretty  well  cut  up  the  smooth,  icy  road.  We  also  saw  some 
laborers  who  were  employed  in  covering  the  slippery  ice  with 
fresh  earth  in  order  to  render  it  passable.  The  wish  which 
I formerly  gave  utterance  to,  that  I might  one  day  be  per- 
mitted to  see  this  part  of  the  world  under  snow,  is  now  at 
last  gratified.  The  road  goes  up  the  Reuss,  as  it  dashes 
down  over  rocks  all  the  rfay,  and  forms  everywhere  the  most 
beautiful  waterfalls.  We  stood  a long  while  attracted  by  the 
singular  beauty  of  one,  which,  in  considerable  volume,  was 
dashing  over  a succession  of  dark  black  rocks.  Here  and 
there,  in  the  cracks  and  on  the  flat  ledges,  pieces  of  ice  had 
formed ; and  the  water  seemed  to  be  running  over  a varie- 
gated blaek-and-white  marble.  The  masses  of  ice  glistened 
in  the  sun  like  veins  of  crystal,  and  the  water  flowed  pure 
and  fresh  between  them. 

On  the  mountains,  there  are  no  more  tiresome  fellow-trav- 
ellers than  a train  of  mules,  they  have  so  unequal  a pace. 
With  a strange  instinct,  they  always  stop  a while  at  the  bot- 
tom of  a steep  ascent,  and  then  dasli  off  at  a quick  pace  up 
it,  to  rest  again  at  the  top.  Very  often,  too,  they  will  stop 
at  the  level  spots,  which  do  occur  now  and  then,  until  they 
are  forced  on  by  the  drivers,  or  by  other  beasts  coming  up. 
And  so  the  foot-passenger,  by  keeping  a steady  pace,  soon 
'gains  upon  them,  and  in  the  narrow  road  has  to  push  by 
them.  If  you  stand  still  a little  while  to  observe  any  object, 
they,  in  their  turn,  will  pass  by  you,  and  you  are  pestered 
with  the  deafening  sound  of  their  bells,  and  hard  brushed 
with  their  loads,  which  project  to  a good  distance  on  each 
side  of  them.  In  this  way  we  at  last  reached  the  summit  of 
lie  mountain,  of  which  you  can  form  some  idea  by  fancying 
i bald  skull  surrounded  with  a crown.  Here  one  finds  him- 
self on  a perfect  flat  surrounded  with  peaks.  Far  and  near 
lie  eye  meets  with  nothing  but  bare  and  mostly  snow-covered 
leaks  and  crags. 

It  is  scarcely  possible  to  keep  one’s  self  warm,  especially 
IS  they  have  here  no  fuel  but  brushwood,  and  of  that,  too, 
Iicy  are  obliged  to  be  very  sparing,  as  they  have  to  fetch  it 
ip  the  mountains,  from  a distance  of  at  least  three  leagues ; 


! 


66 


LETTERS  FROM  S^TZERLAXE. 


for  at  the  summit,  they  tell  us,  scarcely  any  kind  of  wood 
grows.  The  reverend  father  is  returned  from  Au’olo,  so 
frozen,  that,  on  his  arrival,  he  could  scarcely  utter  a word. 
Although  here  the  Capuchins  are  allowed  to  clothe  themselves 
a little  more  comfortabl}'  than  the  rest  of  their  order,  still 
their  style  of  dress  is  by  no  means  suited  to  such  a climate  as 
this.  All  the  way  up  from  Airolo,  the  road  was  frozen  per- 
fectly smooth,  aud  he  had  the  wind  in  his  face.  His  beard 
was  quite  frozen,  aud  it  was  a long  while  before  he  recovered. 
We  had  some  conversation  together  on  the  hardships  of  their 
residence : he  told  us  how  they  managed  to  get  through  the 
3’ear,  their  various  occupations,  aud  their  domestic  circum- 
stances. He  could  speak  nothing  but  Italian,  and  so  we  had 
an  opportunity  of  putting  to  nse  the  exercises  which  we  had 
taken  in  this  language  during  the  spiing.  Towards  evening, 
we  went  for  a moment  outside  the  house-door,  that  the  good 
father  might  ix)int  out  to  us  the  peak  which  is  considered  to 
be  the  highest  summit  of  Mount  Gothard.  But  we  could 
scarcely  endure  to  stay  out  a very  few  minutes,  so  searching 
and  pinching  was  the  cold.  This  time,  therefore,  we  shall 
remain  close  shut  up  within  doors,  aud  shall  have  time 
enough,  before  we  start  to-morrow,  to  travel  again,  in  thought, 
over  all  the  most  remarkable  parts  of  this  region. 

A brief  geographical  description  will  enable  you  to  under- 
staud  how  remarkable  the  point  is  at  which  we  are  now  sit- 
ting. St.  Gothard  is  not,  indeed,  the  highest  mountain  of 
Switzerland  (in  Savoy,  Mont  Blanc  has  a far  higher  eleva- 
tion) ; and  yet  it  maintains  above  all  others  the  rank  of  a king 
of  mountains,  because  all  the  great  chains  converge  together 
around  it,  and  all  rest  upon  if  as  on  their  base.  Indeed,  if 
I do  not  make  a great  mistake,  I think  I was  told  at  Berne, 
by  Herr  Wyttenbacli,  who  from  its  highest  summit  had  seen 
the  peaks  of  all  the  others,  that  the  latter  all  leaned  towards 
it.  The  mountains  of  Schweitz  and  Unterwalden,  joined  by 
those  of  Uri,  range  from  the  north  ; from  the  east,  those  of  the 
Grisons  ; from  the  south,  those  of  the  Italian  cantons  : while 
from  the  west,  by  means  of  the  Furca,  the  double  line  of 
mountains  which  enclose  Valais  presses  upon  it.  Xot  far 
from  this  house  there  are  two  small  lakes,  one  of  which  sends 
forth  tlie  Ticino  through  gorges  and  A'alleys  into  Italy  ; while 
from  the  other,  in  like  manner,  the  Reuss  proceeds,  till  it 
empties  itself  in  the  Lake  of  the  Forest  towns. ^ Xot  far 
from  this  spot  are  the  sources  of  the  Rhine,  which  pui’sue  an 

1 Lake  Lucerne. 


LETTEES  FEOM  SWITZERLAND, 


67 


easterly  course  ; and  if  then  we  take  in  the  Rhone,  which  rises 
at  the  foot  of  the  Furca,  and  runs  westward  through  Valais, 
we  shall  find  ourselves  at  the  point  of  a cross,  from  which 
mountain  ranges  and  rivers  proceed  towards  the  four  cardinal 
points. 


TEAYELS  IN  ITALY. 


AUCH  IN  ARCADIEN. 


-■1  ■ 


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0 


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'■f  V '-''if 


miiif 


TEAYELS  IN  ITALY. 


AUCH  IN  ARCADIEN. 


FROM  CARLSBAD  TO  THE  BRENNER. 

Sept.  3, 1780. 

As  early  as  three  o’clock  in  the  morning,  I stole  out  of 
Carlsbad ; for  otherwise  I should  not  have  been  allowed  to 
depart  quietly.  The  baud  of  friends,  who,  on  the  28th  of 
August,  rejoiced  to  celebrate  my  birthday,  had  in  some  degree 
acquired  a right  to  detain  me.  However,  it  was  impossible 
to  stay  here  any  longer.  Having  packed  a portmanteau 
merely,  and  a knapsack,  I jumped  alone  into  a post-chaise ; 
and  by  half-past  eight,  on  a beautifully  calm  but  foggy  morn- 
ing, I arrived  at  Zevoda.  The  upper  clouds  were  streaky 
and  fleecy,  the  lower  ones  heavy.  This  appeared  to  me  a 
I good  sign.  I hoped,  that,  after  so  wretched  a summer,  we 
j should  enjoy  a fine  autumn.  About  tvvelve  I got  to  Egra, 
I under  a warm  and  shining  sun  ; and  now  it  occurred  to  me, 
j that  this  place  had  the  same  latitude  as  my  own  nativ'e  town, 

! and  it  was  a real  pleasure  to  me  once  more  to  take  my  mid- 
i!  day  meal  beneath  a bright  sk}',  at  the  fiftieth  degree. 

On  entering  Bavaria,  one  comes  at  once  on  the  monastery 
of  Waldsasseu,  with  the  valuable  domaui  of  the  ecclesiasti- 
cal lords  who  were  wise  sooner  than  other  men.  It  lies  in 
a dish-like,  not  to  say  caldron-like,  hollow,  in  a beautiful 
wheat-ground,  enclosed  on  all  sides  by  slightly  ascending 
and  fertile  heights.  This  cloister  also  possesses  settlements 
in  the  neighboring  districts.  The  soil  is  decomposed  slate- 
clay.  The  marl  which  is  found  in  this  mineral  formation, 
and  which,  as  yet  undecomposed,  slowly  crumbles,  makes 
the  earth  loose  and  extremely  fertile.  The  land  continues 
to  rise  until  you  come  to  Tirscheureuth,  and  the  waters  flow 

71 


72 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


against  yon,  to  fall  into  the  Egra  and  the  Elbe.  From  Tirsch- 
enreuth  it  descends  southwards,  and  the  streams  run  towards 
the  Danube.  1 can  very  rapidly  form  an  idea  of  a countrj’ 
as  soon  as  I know  by  examination  which  way  even  the  least 
brook  runs,  and  can  determine  the  river  to  whose  basin  it 
belongs.  Bj"  this  means,  even  in  those  districts  of  which  it 
is  impossible  to  take  a survey,  one  can,  in  thought,  form  a 
connection  between  lines  of  mountains  and  valleys.  From 
the  last-mentioned  place  begins  an  excellent  road  formed  of 
granite.  A better  one  cannot  be  conceived ; for,  as  the 
decomposed  granite  consists  of  gravelly  and  argillaceous 
earths,  they  bind  excellently  together,  and  form  a solid  foun- 
dation, so  as  to  make  a road  as  smooth  as  a threshing-floor. 
The  country  through  which  it  runs  looks  so  much  the  worse  : 
it  also  consists  of  a granite-sand,  lies  very  flat  and  marshy, 
and  the  excellent  road  is  all  the  more  desirable.  And  as, 
moreover,  the  roads  descend  gradually  from  this  plane,  one 
gets  on  with  a rapidity  that  sti’ikingly  contrasts  with  the 
general  snail’s  pace  of  Bohemian  travelling.  The  enclosed 
billet  will  give  you  the  names  of  the  different  stages.  Suflice 
it  to  say,  that,  on  the  second  morning,  I was  at  Ratisbon  ; 
and  so  I did  these  twenty-four  miles  ^ and  a half  in  thirty- 
nine  hours.  As  the  day  began  to  dawn.  I found  myself  be- 
tween Schwondorf  and  Regeustauf ; and  I observed  here  a 
change  for  the  better  in  the  cultivation  of  the  laud.  The 
soil  was  no  longer  the  mere  debris  of  the  rock,  but  a mixed 
alluvial  deposit.  The  inundation  by  which  it  was  deposited 
must  have  been  caused  by  the  ebb  and  flood,  from  the  basin 
of  the  Danube,  into  all  the  valleys  which  at  present  drain 
their  water  into  it.  In  this  way  were  formed  the  natural 
boles  (polder)  on  which  the  tillage  is  carried  on.  This 
remark  applies  to  all  lands  in  the  neighborhood  of  large  or 
small  streams,  and  with  this  guide  any  observer  may  form 
a conclusion  as  to  the  soils  suited  for  tillage. 

Ratisbon  is,  indeed,  beautifully  situated.  The  conntiT 
could  not  but  invite  men  to  settle,  and  build  a city  in  it.  and 
the  spiritual  lords  have  shown  their  judgment.  All  the  laud 
around  the  town  belongs  to  them  : in  the  city  itself  churches 
crowd  churches,  and  monastic  buildings  are  no  less  thick. 
The  Danube  reminds  me  of  the  dear  old  Main.  At  Frank- 
fort, indeed,  the  river  and  bridges  have  a better  appearance : 

1 A Germ.-in  mile  is  exactly  ecjual  to  four  English  geographic.il.  and  to  rather 
mol  e than  four  and  a qiiartcr  ordinary  miles.  The  distance  in  the  text  in.iy  there- 
fore he  roughly  set  down  as  one  hundred  and  four  miles  English.  — A.  J.  W.  M. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


73 


here,  however,  the  view  of  the  northern  snbnrl),  Stadt-am- 
hof,  looks  very  pretty,  as  it  lies  before  3’on  across  the  river. 

Immediately  on  my  arrival  I betook  mj’self  to  the  College 
of  the  Jesuits,  where  the  annual  plaj'  was  being  acted  bj'  the 
l)upils.  I saw  the  end  of  the  opera  and  the  beginning  of 
the  ti’agedy.  They  did  not  act  worse  than  many  an  unexpe- 
rienced company  of  amateurs,  and  their  dresses  were  beau- 
tiful, almost  too  superb.  This  public  exhibition  also  served 
to  convince  me  still  more  strong^  of  the  worldl}’  prudence 
of  the  Jesuits.  They  neglect  nothing  that  is  likelj'  to  pro- 
duce an  effect,  and  contrive  to  practise  it  with  interest  and 
care.  lu  this  there  is  not  merely"  prudence,  such  as  we 
uuderstand  the  term  abstractedly : it  is  associated  with  a 
real  pleasure  in  the  matter  in  hand,  a sympathy  and  a fellow- 
feeling,  a taste,  such  as  arises  from  the  experience  of  life. 
As  this  great  societ}’  has  among  its  members  organ-builders, 
sculptors,  and  gilders,  so,  assuredly,  there  are  some  who  pat- 
ronize the  stage  with  learning  and  taste  ; and,  just  as  they 
decorate  their  churches  with  appropriate  ornaments,  these 
clear-sighted  men  take  advantage  of  the  world’s  sensual  eye 
bj"  an  imposing  theatre. 

To-day  I am  writing  in  latitude  forty-nine  degrees.  The 
weather  promises  to  be  fair,  and  even  here  the  people  com- 
plain of  the  coldness  and  wet  of  the  past  summer.  The 
morning  was  cool,  but  it  was  the  beginning  of  a glorious  and 
temperate  day.  The  mild  atmosphere  which  the  mighty  river 
brings  with  it  is  something  quite  peculiar.  The  fruits  are 
nothing  veiy  surprising.  I have  tasted,  indeed,  some  excel- 
lent pears  ; but  I am  longing  for  grapes  and  figs. 

My  attention  is  riveted  by  the  actions  and  principles  of 
the  Jesuits.  Their  churches,  towers,  and  buildings  have 
a something  great  and  perfect  in  their  plan,  which  imposes 
all  beholders  with  a secret  awe.  In  the  decoration,  gold, 
silver,  metal,  and  polished  marble  are  accumulated  in  such 
splendor  and  profusion  as  must  dazzle  the  beggars  of  all 
ranks.  Here  and  there  one  fails  not  to  meet  with  something 
in  bad  taste  in  order  to  appease  and  to  attract  hnmamty. 
This  is  the  general  character  of  the  external  ritual  of  the 
Roman-Catholic  Church  ; but  I have  never  seen  it  applied 
with  so  much  shrewdness,  tact,  and  consistency  as  among 
the  Jesuits.  Here  all  tends  to  this  one  end.  Unlike  the 
jnembers  of  the  other  spiritual  orders,  they  do  not  continue 
an  old,  worn-out  ceremonial,  but,  humoring  the  spirit  of  the 
i age,  continually  deck  it  out  with  fresh  pomp  and  splendor. 


74 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


A rare  stone  is  quarried  here  into  blocks.  In  appearance 
it  is  a species  of  conglomerate  : however,  it  must  be  held  to 
be  older,  more  primary,  and  of  a porphyritic  nature.  It  is 
of  a greenish  color,  mixed  with  quartz,  and  is  porous : in  it 
are  found  large  pieces  of  very  solid  jasper,  in  which,  again, 
are  to  be  seen  little  round  pieces  of  a kind  of  breccia.  A 
specimen  would  have  been  very  instructive,  and  one  could 
not  help  longing  for  one.  The  rock,  however,  was  too  solid ; : 
and  I had  taken  a vow  not  to  load  myself  with  stones  on  this  | 
journey.  : 


* Muxich,  Sept.  6, 1786. 

At  half-past  twelve  on  the  5th  of  Septemlier,  I set  off 
for  Ratisbon.  At  Abbach  the  country  is  beautiful,  while 
the  Danube  dashes  against  limestone  rocks  as  far  as  8aal ; 
the  limestone  somewhat  similar  to  that  at  Osteroda,  on  the 
Hartz,  — close,  but,  on  the  whole,  porous.  By  six  a.m.  I 
was  in  Munich  ; and,  after  having  looked  about  me  for  some 
twelve  hours,  I will  notice  only  a few*  points.  In  the  Sculp- 
ture Gallery  I did  not  find  myself  at  home.  I must  practise 
mj'  C3'e,  first  of  all,  on  paintings.  Tliere  are  some  excellent 
things  here.  The  sketches  of  Rubens  from  the  Luxembourg 
Gallery  caused  me  the  greatest  delight. 

Here,  also,  is  the  rare  to}^  a model  of  Trajan’s  Pillar. 
The  material  lapis-lazuli,  and  the  figures  in  gilt.  It  is,  at 
any  rate,  a rare  piece  of  workmanship,  and  in  this  light 
one  takes  pleasure  in  looking  at  it. 

In  the  Hall  of  the  Antiques  I soon  felt  that  my  eye  was 
not  much  practised  on  such  objects.  On  this  account  I was 
unwilling  to  stay  long  there,  and  to  waste  my  time.  There 
was  much  that  did  not  take  my  fancy,  without  my  being  able 
to  say  why.  A Drusns  attracted  m3’  attention  ; two  Anto- 
uines  pleased  me,  as  also  did  a few  other  things.  On  the 
whole,  the  arrangement  of  the  objects  was  not  happy,  al- 
<■  though  there  is  an  evident  attempt  to  make  a display  with 
them  ; and  the  hall,  or  rather  the  museum,  would  have  a good 
appearance  if  it  were  kept  in  better  repair  and  cleaner.  In 
the  Cabinet  of  Natural  History  I saw  beautiful  things  from 
the  T3T0I,  which  in  smaller  specimens  I was  already  ac- 
quainted with,  and  indeed  possessed. 

I was  met  b3’  a woman  with  figs,  which,  as  the  first,  tasted 
delicious ; but  the  fruit  in  general  is  not  good,  considering 
the  latitude  of  forty-eight  degrees.  Every  one  is  complain- 
ing here  of  the  wet  and  cold.  A mist,  which  might  well  lie 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


75 


called  a rain,  overtook  me  this  moiming  early,  before  I reached 
Munich.  Throughout  the  day  the  wind  has  continued  to 
blow  cold  from  off  the  Tyrolese  mountains.  As  I looked 
towards  them  from  the  tower,  I found  them  covered,  and  the 
whole  heavens  shrouded  with  clouds.  Now,  at  setting,  the 
sun  is  shining  on  the  top  of  the  ancient  tower,  which  stands 
right  opposite  to  my  window.  Pardon  me  that  I dwell  so 
much  on  wind  and  weather.  The  traveller  by  land  is  almost 
as  much  dependent  upon  them  as  the  voyager  by  sea  ; and  it 
would  be  a sad  thing  if  m3’  autumn  in  foreign  lands  should  be 
as  little  favored  as  m3’  summer  at  home. 

And  now  straight  for  Inuspruck.  What  a deal  I pass 
over,  Ijoth  on  m3’  right  and  on  my  left,  in  order  to  carry  out 
the  one  thought  which  has  become  almost  too  old  in  my  soul ! 

Mittelwald,  Sept.  7,  1786. 

It  seems  as  if  m3’ guardian-spirit  had  said  “Amen”  to 
my  “Credo,”  and  I thank  him  that  he  has  brought  me  to 
this  place  on  so  fine  a da3’.  My  last  postilion  said,  with  a 
joyous  exclamation,  it  was  the  first  iu  the  whole  summer.  I 
cherish  in  quiet  my  superstition  that  it  will  long  continue  so  : 
however,  my  friends  must  jiardon  me  if  again  I talk  of  air 
and  clouds. 

As  I started  from  Munich,  about  five  o’clock,  the  sky  had 
cleared.  On  the  mountains  of  the  T3’rol  the  clouds  stood  in 
huge  masses.  Nor  did  the  streaks  in  the  lower  regions  move. 
The  road  lies  on  the  heights,  over  hills  of  alluvial  gravel, 
while  below  one  sees  the  Isar  flowing  slowly.  Here  the 
work  of  the  inundations  of  the  primal  oceans  liecomes  con- 
ceivable, In  many  granite  rubbles  I found  the  counterparts 
of  the  specimens  in  my  cabinet,  for  which  I have  to  thank 
Knebel. 

The  mists  rising  from  the  river  and  the  meadows  hung 
about  for  a time  ; but  at  last  the3’,  too,  dispersed.  Between 
these  gravelly  hills,  which  you  must  think  of  as  extending, 
both  in  length  and  breadth,  for  many  leagues,  is  a highly 
beautiful  and  fertile  region  like  that  in  the  basin  of  the 
Regen.  Now  one  comes  again  upon  the  Isar,  and  observes 
in  its  channel  a precipitous  section  of  the  gravel-hills,  at 
least  a hundred  and  fifty  feet  high.  I arrived  at  Wolfraths- 
hausen,  and  reached  the  eight  and  fortieth  degree.  The  sun 
was  scorching  hot.  No  one  relies  on  the  fine  weather.  Every 
one  is  complaining  of  the  past  3'ear,  and  bitterly  weeping 
over  the  arrangements  of  Providence. 


76 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


And  now  a new  world  opened  upon  me.  I was  approach- 
ing the  ntoimtains,  which  stood  out  more  and  more  distinctly. 

Benedietbeuern  has  a glorious  situation,  and  charms  one  at 
the  first  sight.  On  a fertile  plain  is  a long  and  Ijroad  white 
building,  and  behind  it  a broad  and  lofty  ridge  of  rocks. 
Next,  one  ascends  to  the  Kochel-see,  and,  still  higher  on  the 
mountains,  to  the  Walchen-see.  Here  I greeted  the  first 
snow-capped  summit,  and,  in  the  midst  of  my  admiration  at 
being  so  near  the  snowy  mountains,  I was  informed  that 
yesterday  it  had  thundered  in  these  parts,  and  that  snow 
had  fallen  on  the  heights.  FTom  these  meteoric  tokens 
people  draw  hopes  of  better  weather,  and  from  this  early 
snow  anticipate  change  in  the  atmosphere.  The  rocks 
around  me  are  all  of  limestone,  of  the  oldest  foimatiou,  and 
containing  no  fossils.  These  limestone  mountains  extend, 
in  vast,  unbroken  ranges,  from  Dalmatia  to  IMount  .St. 
Gothard.  Hacquet  has  travelled  over  a considerable  portion 
of  the  chain.  They  dip  on  the  primary  rocks  of  the  quartz 
and  clay. 

I reached  'Walchen-see  about  half-past  four.  About 
three  miles  from  this  place  I met  with  a pretty  adventure. 
A harper  and  his  daughter,  a little  girl  of  about  eleven  years, 
were  walking  before  me,  and  he  begged  of  me  to  take  up 
his  child.  He  went  on  with  his  instrument.  I let  her  sit  by 
my  side  ; and  she  very  carefull}’  placed  at  her  feet  a large 
new  box,  — a pretty  and  accomplished  creature,  and  already 
l)retty  well  acquainted  with  the  world.  She  had  been  on  a 
pilgrimage  on  foot,  with  her  mother,  to  ilaria  Einsiedel ; and 
both  had  determined  to  go  upon  the  still  longer  journey  to 
St.  Jago  of  Compostelhi,  when  her  mother  was  carried  off  by 
death,  and  was  unable  to  fulfil  her  vow.  It  was  impossible, 
she  thought,  to  do  too  ranch  in  honor  of  the  Mother  of  God. 
After  a great  fire,  in  which  a whole  house  was  burnt  to  the 
lowest  foundation,  she  herself  had  seen  the  image  of  the 
IMother  of  God,  which  stood  over  the  door,  beneath  a glass 
frame,  — image  and  glass  both  uninjured  ; which  was  surely 
a palpable  miracle.  All  her  journeys  she  had  taken  on  foot. 
She  had  just  played  in  Munich,  before  the  elector  of  Bavaria, 
and  altogether  her  perfoianances  had  been  witnessed  b}'  one 
and  twentj"  princely  personages.  .She  quite  entertained  me. 
Pretty,  large  hazel  eyes,  a imoud  forehead,  which  she  fre- 
quently wrinkled  by  an  elevation  of  the  brows.  She  was 
natural  and  agreeable  when  she  spoke,  and  especially  when 
she  laughed  out  loud  with  the  free  laugh  of  childhood. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


77 


When,  on  the  other  hand,  slie  was  silent,  she  seemed  to  liave 
a meaning  in  it,  and,  with  her  upper  lip,  had  a sinister 
expression.  I spoke  with  her  on  very  many  subjects  : she 
was  at  home  with  all  of  them,  and  made  most  pertinent 
remarks.  Thus  she  asked  me  once  what  tree  one  we  came 
to  was.  It  was  a huge  and  beautiful  maple,  the  first  I had 
seen  on  my  whole  journey.  She  narrowl}'  observed  it,  and 
was  quite  delighted  when  several  more  appeared,  and  she 
was  able  to  recognize  this  tree.  She  was  going,  she  told  me, 
to  Botzen,  for  the  fair,  where  she  guessed  I,  too,  was  hasten- 
ing. When  she  met  me  there,  I must  buy  her  a fairing ; 
which,  of  course,  I promised  to  do.  She  intended  to  put  on 
there  her  new  coif,  which  she  had  had  made  out  of  her  earn- 
ings at  Munich.  She  would  show  it  to  me  beforehand.  So 
she  opened  the  bandbox  ; and  I could  not  do  less  than  admire 
the  head-gear,  with  its  rich  embroidery  and  beautiful  ribbons. 

Over  another  pleasant  prospect  we  felt  a mutual  pleasure. 
She  asserted  that  we  had  fine  weather  before  us  ; for  they 
always  carried  their  barometer  with  them,  and  that  was  the 
harp.  When  the  treble-string  twanged,  it  was  sure  to  be  fine 
weather  ; and  it  had  done  so  yesterday.  1 accepted  the  omen, 
and  we  parted  in  the  best  of  humors  and  with  the  hope  of 
a speedy  meeting. 

Ok  the  Bkenkee,  Sept.  8,  1786. 

Eveniug. 

Hun’ied,  not  to  say  driven  here  by  necessity,  I have 
reached  at  last  a resting-place  in  a calm,  quiet  spot  just 
such  as  I could  wish  it  to  be.  It  has  been  a day  which  for 
many  years  it  will  be  a pleasure  to  recall.  I left  Mittelwald 
about  six  in  the  morning,  and  a sharp  wind  soon  perfectly 
cleared  the  sky.  The  cold  was  such  as  one  looks  for  onl}-  in 
February.  But  now,  in  the  splendor  of  the  setting  sun,  the 
dark  foreground  thickly  planted  with  fig-trees,  and,  peeping 
between  them,  the  gray  limestone  rocks,  and,  beh.iud  all,  the 
highest  summit  of  the  mountain  covered  with  snow,  and 
standing  out  in  bold  outline  against  the  deep  blue  sky,  fur- 
nish precious  and  ever-changing  images. 

One  enters  the  Tyrol  by  Seharnitz.  The  boundaiy  line  is 
marked  by  a wall  which  bars  the  passage  through  the  valley, 
and  abuts  on  both  sides  on  the  mountains.  It  looks  well. 
On  one  side  the  rocks  are  fortified  ; on  the  other  the3'  ascend 
perpendicularly.  From  Seefeld  the  road  continually  grew 
more  interesting,  and  from  Benedictbeuern  to  this  place  it 


78 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


went  on  ascending,  from  height  to  height ; while  all  the 
streams  of  the  neighboring  districts  were  making  for  the 
Isar.  Now  one  caught  a sight,  over  a ridge  of  roc-ks,  of 
the  Vallejo  of  the  Inn  ; and  Inzingen  lay  before  us.  The  suu 
w'as  high  and  hot,  so  that  I was  obliged  to  throw  off  some  of 
my  coats  ; for  indeed,  with  the  vaiying  atmosphere  of  the 
day,  I am  obliged  frequently  to  change  my  clothing. 

At  Zierl  one  begins  to  descend  into  the  Valley  of  the  Inn. 
Its  situation  is  indescribably  beautiful,  and  the  bright  beams 
of  the  sun  made  it  look  quite  cheerful.  The  postilion  went 
faster  than  I wished  ; for  he  had  not  yet  heard  mass,  and 
vras  anxious  to  be  present  at  it  at  Innspruck,  where,  as  it 
was  the  festival  of  the  Nativity  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  he 
hoi)ed  to  be  a devout  participant.  Accordingly,  we  rattled 
along  the  banks  of  the  Inn,  hunting  by  Martinswand,  — a 
vast,  precipitous,  wall-like  rock  of  limestone.  To  the  spot 
where  the  Emperor  Maximilian  is  said  to  have  lost  himself, 
I ventured  to  descend,  and  came  up  again  without  a guide ; 
although  it  is,  in  any  case,  a rash  undertaking. 

Innspruck  is  gloriously  situated  in  a rich,  hroad  valley, 
between  high  rocks  and  mountains.  Every  body  and  every 
thing  was  decked  out  in  honor  of  the  Virgin’s  Nativity'.  At 
first  I had  some  wish  to  stop  there,  but  it  promised  neither 
rest  nor  peace.  For  a little  while  I amused  myself  with  the 
son  of  my  host.  At  last  the  people  who  were  to  attend  to 
me  came  in  one  by  one.  For  the  sake  of  health,  and  pros- 
perity ta  the  flocks,  they  had  all  gone  on  a pilgrimage  to 
Wilden,  — a place  of  worship  on  the  mountains,  about  three 
miles  and  a half  from  the  city.  About  two  o’clock,  as  my  roll- 
ing carriage  divided  the  gay,  merry  tlu’oug,  every  one  was  in 
holiday  garb  and  promenade. 

From  Innspruck  the  road  becomes  even  still  more  beauti- 
ful : no  powers  of  description  can  equal  it.  The  most  fre- 
quented road,  ascending  a gorge  which  empties  its  waters  into 
the  Inn,  offers  to  the  eye  innumerable  varieties  of  scenery. 
■While  the  road  often  runs  close  to  the  most  rugged  rocks, 
indeed  is  frequently  cut  right  through  them,  one  sees  the 
other  side  above  you  slightl}’  inclining,  and  cultivated  with 
the  most  surprising  skill.  On  the  high  and  broad-ascendmg 
surface  lie  valleys,  houses,  cottages,  and  cabins,  whitewashed, 
glittering  among  the  fields  and  hedges.  Soon  all  changed : 
the  land  becomes  available  only  for  pasture,  until  it.  too, 
terminates  on  the  precipitous  ascent.  1 have  gamed  some 
ideas  for  my  scheme  of  a creation  ; none,  however,  perfectly 


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79 


new  and  nnexpected.  I have  also  dreamed  much  of  the  model 
I have  so  long  talked  about,  by  which  I am  desirous  to  give 
a notion  of  all  that  is  brooding  in  my  own  mind,  and  which 
in  nature  itself  I cannot  point  out  to  every  eye. 

Now  it  grew  darker  and  darker ; individual  objects  were 
lost  in  the  obscurity ; the  masses  became  constantly  vaster 
and  grander  ; at  last,  as  the  whole  moved  before  me  like  some 
deeply  mysterious  figure,  the  moon  suddenly  illuminated  the 
snow-capped  summits  ; and  now  I am  waiting  till  morning 
shall  light  up  this  rocky  chasm  in  which  I am  shut  up  on  the 
boundary-line  of  the  north  and  south. 

I must  again  add  a few  remarks  on  the  weather,  which, 
perhaps,  favors  me  so  highly  in  return  for  the  great  attention 
I pay  to  it.  On  the  lowlands  one  has  good  or  bad  weather 
when  it  is  already  settled  for  either : on  the  mountains  one  is 
present  with  the  beginning  of  the  change.  I have  so  often 
experienced  this  when,  on  my  travels,  or  walks,  or  hunting- 
excursions,  I have  passed  days  and  nights  between  the  cliffs 
in  the  mountain  forests.  On  such  occasions  a conceit  occurred 
to  me,  which  I give  you  as  nothing  better,  but  which,  however, 
I cannot  get  rid  of,  as  indeed,  generally,  such  conceits  are,  of 
all  things,  most  difficult  to  get  rid  of.  I altogether  look  upon 
it  as  a truth  ; and  so  I will  now  give  utterance  to  it,  especially 
as  I have  already  so  often  had  occasion  to  prove  the  indul- 
gence of  my  friends. 

When  we  look  at  the  mountains,  either  closely  or  from  a 
distance,  and  see  their  summits  above  us,  at  one  time  glitter- 
ing in  the  sunshine,  at  another  enveloped  in  mist,  swept  round 
with  strong  clouds,  or  blackened  with  showers,  we  are  dis- 
posed to  ascribe  it  all  to  the  atmosphere,  as  we  can  easily  with 
the  eye  see  and  discern  its  movements  and  changes.  The 
mountains,  on  the  other  hand,  with  their  glorious  shapes,  lie 
before  our  outward  senses  immovable.  We  take  them  to  be 
dead,  beeause  they  are  rigid  ; and  we  believe  them  to  be  inac- 
tive, because  they  are  at  rest.  For  a long  while,  however,  I 
cannot  put  off  the  impulse  to  ascribe,  for  the  most  part,  to 
their  imperceptible  and  secret  influence  the  clianges  which  are 
observable  in  the  atmosphere.  For  instance,  I believe  that 
the  mass  of  the  earth  generally,  and  therefore,  also,  in  an 
especial  way,  its  more  considerable  continents,  do  not  exercise 
a constant  and  invariable  force  of  attraction,  but  that  this 
attractive  force  manifests  itself  by  a certain  pulse,  which, 
according  to  intrinsic,  necessary,  and  probably,  also,  acci- 
; dental  external  causes,  increases  or  decreases.  Though  all 


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attempts  by  other  objects  to  deteiTnine  this  oscillation  may 
be  too  limited  and  rude,  the  atmosphere  furnishes  a standard 
both  delicate  and  large  enough  to  test  their  silent  operations. 
When  this  attractive  force  decreases  never  so  little,  immedi- 
ately the  decrease  in  the  gravity,  and  the  diminished  elasticity 
of  the  air,  indicate  this  effect.  The  atmosphere  is  now 
unable  to  sustain  the  moisture  which  is  diffused  throughout  it, 
either  chemically  or  mechanically  ; the  clouds  lower,  and  the 
rain  falls,  and  passes  to  the  lowlands.  "When,  however,  the 
mountains  increase  their  power  of  attraction,  then  the  elas- 
ticity of  the  air  is  again  restored,  and  two  important  phe- 
nomena result.  First  of  all,  the  mountains  collect  around 
their  summits  vast  masses  of  clouds,  hold  them  fast  and  finn 
above  themselves  like  second  heads,  until,  as  determined  by 
the  contest  of  electrical  forces  within  them,  they  pour  down 
as  thunder-showers,  rain,  or  mist;  and  then,  on  all  that 
remains,  the  electricity  of  the  air  operates,  which  is  now  re- 
stored to  a capacity  of  retaining  more  water,  dissolving  and 
elaborating  it.  I saw  quite  clearly  the  dispersion  of  a cloudy 
mass  of  this  kind.  It  was  hanging  on  the  very  highest  peak  : 
the  red  tints  of  the  setting  sun  still  illuminated  it.  Slowly 
and  slowly  pieces  detached  themselves  from  either  end. 
Some  fleecy  nebulie  were  drawn  off,  and  carried  up  still 
higher,  and  then  disappeared  ; and  in  this  manner,  by  de- 
grees, the  whole  mass  vanished,  and  was  strangely  spun  awa}' 
before  my  eyes,  like  a distaff,  by  invisible  hands. 

If  my  friends  are  disposed  to  laugh  at  the  itinerant  meteor- 
ologist and  his  strange  theories,  I shall,  perhaps,  give  them 
more  solid  cause  for  laughter  by  some  other  of  my  remarks  ; 
for  I must  confess,  that  as  my  journey  was.  in  fact,  a flight 
from  all  the  unshapely  things  which  tormented  me  in  latitude 
51°,  I hoped  in  48°  to  meet  with  a true  Goshen.  But  I 
found  myself  disappointed  ; for  latitude  alone  does  not  make 
a climate  and  fine  weather,  but  the  mountain  chains,  espe- 
ciall}^  such  as  intersect  the  land  from  east  to  west.  In  these, 
great  changes  are  constantly  going  on  ; and  the  lauds  which 
lie  to  the  north  have  most  to  suffer  from  them.  Thus,  far- 
ther north,  the  weather  throughout  the  summer  was  deter- 
mined by  the  great  Alpine  range  on  which  I am  now  writing.' 
Here,  for  the  last  few  months,  it  has  rained  incessantly,  while 
a south-east  or  south-west  wind  carried  the  showers  north- 
wards. In  Ital}'  they  are  said  to  have  had  fine  weather; 
indeed,  a little  too  dry. 

And  now  a few  words  on  a kindred  subject.  — the  vegeta- 


LETTERS  EROil  ITALY. 


81 


hlc  ■^orld,  Vaich  in  so  many  ways  depends  on  climate  and 
moisture,  and  the  height  of  the  mountain  ranges.  Here,  too, 
I have  noticed  no  remarkable  change,  but  still  an  improve 
ment.  In  the  valley  before  Inuspruck,  apples  and  pears  are 
abundant ; while  the  peaches  and  grapes  are  brought  from 
the  Welsh  districts,  or,  in  other  words,  the  Southern  Tyrol. 
Near  Inuspruck  they  grow  a great  deal  of  Indian  corn  and 
buckwheat,  which  they  call  blende.  On  the  Brenner  I first 
saw  the  larch,  and  near  Schemberg  the  pine.  Would  the 
harper’s  daughter  have  questioned  me  about  them  also? 

As  regards  the  plants,  I feel  still  more  how  perfect  a tyro 
I am.  Up  to  Munich  I saw,  I believed,  none  but  those  I 
was  well  accustomed  to.  In  truth,  my  hurried  travelling  by 
day  and  night  was  not  favorable  to  nicer  ol)servation  on  such 
objects.  Now,  it  is  true,  I have  my  “ Linnaeus  ” at  hand  ; aud 
his  terminology  is  well  stamped  on  my  brain.  But  whence 
are  the  time  aud  quiet  to  come  for  aualj'zing,  which,  if  I at 
all  know  myself,  will  ever  become  my  forte?  I,  therefore, 
sharpen  my  eye  for  the  more  general  features  ; and,  wlien  I 
met  with  the  first  gentiana  near  the  Walchensee,  it  sti’uck 
me  that  it  was  always  near  the  water  that  I had  hitherto 
noticed  any  new  plants. 

What  made  me  still  more  attentive  was  the  influence  which 
the  altitude  of  the  mountain  region  evidently  had  on  plants. 
Not  only  did  I meet  there  with  new  specimens,  but  I also 
observed  that  the  growth  of  the  old  ones  was  materially 
altered.  While,  in  the  lower  regions,  branches  and  stalks 
were  stronger  and  more  sappy,  the  buds  stood  closer  together, 
and  the  leaves  broader,  the  higher  you  got  on  the  mountains, 
the  stalks  and  branches  became  more  fragile,  the  buds  were 
at  greater  intervals,  aud  the  leaves  thinner  aud  more  lanceo- 
late. I noticed  this  in  the  case  of  a willow  and  of  a gentiana, 
and  convinced  myself  that  it  was  not  a ca.se  of  dilferent  spe- 
cies. So  also,  near  the  Walchensee,  I noticed  longer  aud 
thinner  rushes  than  anywhere  else. 

The  limestone  of  the  Alps  which  I have  as  yet  travelled 
over  has  a grayish  tint,  and  beautiful,  singular,  irregular 
forms  ; although  the  rock  is  divisible  into  blocks  aud  strata. 
But  as  irregular  strata  occur,  and  the  rock  in  general  does 
not  crumble  equally  under  the  influence  of  the  weather,  the 
sides  aud  the  peaks  have  a singular  appearance.  This  kind 
of  rock  comes  up  the  Brenner  to  a great  height.  In  the 
region  of  the  Ui)per  Lake  I noticed  a slight  modification. 
On  a micaceous  slate  of  dark  green  and  gray  colors,  aud 


82 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


tliickly  veined  with  quartz,  lay  a white,  solid  limestone, 
which,  in  its  detritus,  sparkled,  and  stood  in  great  masses, 
with  numberless  clefts.  Above  it  I again  found  micaceous 
slate,  which,  however,  seemed  to  me  to  be  of  a softer  texture' 
than  the  first.  Higher  up  still,  there  was  to  be  seen  a peculiar 
kind  of  gneiss,  or  rather  a granitic  species  which  approximated 
to  gneiss,  as  in  the  district  of  Ellbogen.  Here  at  the  top,  and 
opposite  the  Inn,  the  rock  is  micaceous  slate.  The  streams 
which  come  from  the  mountains  leave  deposits  of  nothing 
but  this  stone  and  of  the  gray  limestone. 

Not  far  from  here  must  be  the  grauitie  base  on  which  all 
rests.  The  maps  show  that  one  is  on  the  side  of  the  true 
great  Brenner,  from  which  the  sti’eams  of  a wide  surrounding 
district  take  their  rise. 

The  following  is  my  external  judgment  of  the  people. 
They  are  active  and  straightforward.  In  form  they  are 
pretty  generally  alike.  Hazel,  well-opened  eyes : with  the 
women,  brown  and  well-defined  eyebrows,  but  with  the  men, 
light  and  thick.  Among  the  gray  rocks,  the  green  hats  of 
the  men  have  a cheerful  appearance.  The  hats  are  generally 
ornamented  with  ribbons,  or  broad  silk  sashes,  and  with 
fringes,  which  are  prettily  sewn  on.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
women  disfigure  themselves  with  white  uncLessed  cotton  caps 
of  a large  size,  very  much  like  men’s  nightcaps.  These  give 
them  a very  strange  appearance  ; but  abroad,  they  wear  the 
green  hats  of  the  men,  which  become  them  very  much. 

I have  opportunity  of  seeing  the  value  the  common  class 
of  people  put  upon  peacock’s  feathers,  and  in  general  how 
every  variegated  feather  is  prized.  He  who  wishes  to  travel 
through  these  mountains  will  do  well  to  take  with  him  a lot 
of  them.  A feather  of  this  kind  produced  at  the  proper 
moment  will  serve  instead  of  the  ever-welcome  “ something 
to  drink.” 

Whilst  I am  putting  together,  sorting,  and  arranging  these 
sheets,  in  such  a way  that  my  friends  may  easily  take  a 
review  of  my  fortunes  up  to  this  point,  and  that  I may  at 
the  same  time  dismiss  from  m3’  soul  all  that  I have  lateh' 
thought  and  experienced,  I h.ave.  on  the  other  hand,  cast 
man}’  a trembling  look  on  some  packets  of  which  I must 
give  a good  but  brief  account.  They  are  to  be  my  fellow- 
travellers  : may  the}’  not  exercise  too  great  an  influence  on 
m}’  next  few  da}’S  ! 

I brought  whh  me  to  Carlsbad  the  whole  of  mv  manu- 
scripts in  order  to  complete  the  edition  of  m}’  works  which 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


83 


Goschen  has  undertaken.  The  unprinted  ones  I had  long 
possessed  in  beautiful  transcripts  by  the  practised  hand  of 
Secretary  Vogel.  This  active  person  accompanied  me  on 
this  occasion  in  order  that  I might,  if  necessary,  command 
his  dexterous  services.  By  this  means,  and  with  the  never- 
failing  co-operation  of  Herder,  I was  soon  in  a condition  to 
send  to  the  printer  the  first  four  volumes,  and  was  on  the 
point  of  doing  the  same  with  the  last  four.  The  latter  con- 
sisted, for  the  most  part,  of  mere  unfinished  sketches,  indeed 
of  fragments  ; for,  in  truth,  my  perverse  habit  of  beginning 
manj’  plans,  and  then,  as  the  interest  waned,  laying  them 
aside,  had  gradually  gained  strength  with  increasing  years, 
occupations,  and  duties. 

As  I had  brought  these  scraps  with  me,  I readily  listened 
to  the  requests  of  the  literary  circles  of  Carlsbad,  and  read 
out  to  them  all  that  before  had  remained  unknown  to  the 
world,  which  already  was  bitter  enough  in  its  complaints  that 
much  with  which  it  had  entertained  itself  stiU  remained 
unfinished. 

The  celebration  of  my  birthday  consisted  mainly  in  send- 
ing me  several  poems  in  the  name  of  my  commenced  but  un- 
finished works.  Among  these,  one  was  distinguished  above 
the  rest.  It  was  called  “ The  Birds.”  A deputation  of  these 
happy  creatures,  beiug  sent  to  a true  friend,  earnestly  en- 
treat him  to  found  at  once  and  establish  the  kingdom  so 
long  promised  to  them.  Not  less  obvious  and  playful  were 
the  allusions  to  my  other  unfinished  pieces ; so  that  all  at 
once  they  again  possessed  a living  interest  for  me,  and  I 
related  to  my  friends  the  designs  I had  formed,  and  the 
entire  plans.  This  gave  rise  to  the  expression  of  wishes  and 
urgent  requests,  and  gave  the  game  entirely  into  Herder’s 
hands  ; while  he  attempted  to  induce  me  to  take  back  these 
papers,  and,  above  all,  to  bestow  upon  the  “ Iphigenia  ” 
the  pains  it  well  deserved.  The  fragment  which  lies  before 
me  is  rather  a sketch  than  a finished  piece.  It  is  written 
in  poetical  prose,  which  occasionally  falls  into  a sort  of 
iambical  rhythm,  and  even  imitates  other  syllabic  metres. 
This,  indeed,  does  great  injury  to  the  effect,  unless  it  is  read 
well,  and  unless,  by  skilful  turns,  this  defect  is  carefully 
concealed.  He  pressed  this  matter  on  me  very  earnestly  ; 
and  as  I concealed  from  him,  as  well  as  the  rest,  the  great 
extent  of  my  intended  tour,  and  as  he  believed  I had  noth- 
ing more  in  view  than  a mountain  trip,  and  as  he  wms  always 
ridiculing  my  geographical  and  miueralogical  studies,  he  in- 


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LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


sisted  I should  act  much  wiser,  if,  iustead  of  In-eaking  stones, 
I would  put  my  hand  to  this  work.  I could  not  but  give  waj' 
to  so  many  and  well-meant  remonstrances,  but  as  yet  I have 
had  no  opportunity  to  turn  my  attention  to  these  matters.  I 
now  detach  “ Iplhgenia  ” from  the  bundle,  and  take  the  play 
with  me  as  my  fellow-traveller  into  the  beautiful  and  warm 
country  of  the  South.  The  days  are  so  long,  and  there  will 
be  nothing  to  disturb  reflection,  while  the  glorious  objects 
of  the  surrounding  scenery  by  no  means  depress  the  poetic 
nerve:  indeed,  assisted  by  movement  and  the  free  air,  thej' 
rather  stimulate  and  call  it  forth  more  quickly  and  more 
vividly. 


FROM  THE  BRENNER  TO  VERONA.  | 

TiiENT,  morning  of  the  11th  September.  | 

After  full  fifty  hours  passed  in  active  and  constant  occupa-  I 
tion,  I reached  here  about  eight  o’clock  yesterday  evening,  1 
and  soon  after  retired  to  rest ; so  that  I now  find  myself  in  ! 
condition  to  go  on  with  mj^  narrative.  On  the  evening  of  j 
the  9th,  when  I had  closed  the  first  portion  of  my  diary,  I | 
thought  I would  try  and  draw  the  inn  and  post-house  on  the  1 
Brenner,  just  as  it  stood.  My  attempt  was  unsuccessful,  for  ' ( 
I missed  the  character  of  the  place  : I went  home,  therefore,  , ‘ 
ill  somewhat  of  an  ill  humor.  Mine  host  asked  me  if  I would  H 
not  depart,  telling  me  it  was  moonlight  and  the  best  travel-  | ' 
ling.  Although  I knew  perfectly  well,  that  as  he  wanted  his  i 
horses  early  in  the  morning  to  carry  in  the  after-crop  {Grum-  i 
7)iet),  and  wished  to  have  them  home  again  in  time  for  that  I ' 
purpose,  his  .advice  was  given  with  a view  to  his  own  inter- 
est, I nevertheless  took  it,  because  it  accorded  with  my  own 
inclination.  The  sun  re-aiipearcd,  the  air  was  tolerable.  I ' 
packed  up,  and  started  about  seven  o’clock.  The  blue  at-  i 
niosphere  triumphed  over  the  clouds,  and  the  evening  was 
most  beautiful. 

The  postilion  fell  asleep  ; and  the  horses  set  off  at  a quick 
trot  down  hill,  always  taking  the  well-known  route.  VFheu 
the}'  came  to  a village,  they  went  somewhat  slower : then 
the  driver  would  wake  up,  and  urge  them  on  again.  And 
thus  we  descended  at  a good  pace,  with  high  rocks  on  both 
sides  of  us,  or  by  the  banks  of  the  ra[)id  River  Etsch.  The 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


85 


moon  rose,  and  shed  her  light  upon  the  massive  objects 
around.  Some  mills  which  stood  between  primeval  pine- 
trees,  over  the  foaming  stream,  seemed  really  everlasting. 

When,  at  nine  o’clock,  I had  reached  Sterzingen,  they 
gave  me  clearly  to  understand  that  they  wished  me  off 
again.  Arriving  in  Mittelwald  exactly  at  twelve  o’clock, 
I found  everybody  asleep  except  the  postilion ; and  we 
were  obliged  to  go  on  to  Brixen,  where  they  again,  as 
it  were,  eloped  with  me,  so  that  at  dawn  of  day  I was 
in  Colman.  The  postilions  drove  so  fast  that  there  was 
neither  seeing  nor  hearing ; and  although  I could  not  help 
being  sorry  at  travelling  through  this  noble  country  with 
such  frightful  rapidity,  and  at  night,  too.  as  though  I were 
fleeing  from  the  place,  I nevertheless  felt  an  inward  joy 
that  a favorable  wind  was  blowing  from  behind  me,  and 
seemed  to  hurry  me  towards  the  object  of  mj’  wishes.  At 
daybreak  I perceived  the  first  vineyard.  A woman  with 
pears  and  peaches  met  me  ; and  thus  we  went  on  to  Teutschen, 
where  I arrived  at  seven  o’clock,  and  then  was  again  hurried 
on.  After  I had  again  travelled  northwards  for  a while,  I at 
last  saw  in  the  bright  sunshine  the  valley  where  Botzen  is 
situated.  Surrounded  by  steep  and  somewhat  high  moun- 
tains, it  is  open  towards  the  south,  and  sheltered  towards 
the  north  by  the  Tyrolese  range.  A mild,  soft  air  pervaded 
the  spot.  Here  the  Etsch  again  winds  towards  the  south. 
The  hills  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  are  cultivated  with 
vines.  They  are  trained  over  long  but  low  arbor-work.  The 
purple  grapes  are  gracefully  suspended  from  the  top,  and 
ripen  in  the  warmth  of  the  soil,  which  is  close  beneath  them. 
In  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  which,  for  the  most  part,  con- 
sists of  nothing  but  meadows,  the  vine  is  cultivated  in  nar- 
row rows  of  similar  festoons,  at  a little  distance  from  each 
otlier ; while  between  grows  the  Indian  corn,  the  stalks  of 
which  at  this  time  are  high.  I have  often  seen  it  ten  feet 
high.  The  fibrous  male  blossom  is  not  yet  cut  off,  as  is  the 
case  when  fructification  has  ceased  for  some  time. 

I came  to  Botzen  in  a bright  sunshine.  A good  assem- 
blage of  mercantile  faces  pleased  me  much.  Everywhere 
one  sees  the  liveliest  tokens  of  an  existence  full  of  purpose, 
and  highly  comfortable.  In  the  square,  some  fruit-women 
were  sitting  with  round  fiat  baskets,  above  four  feet  in  diam- 
eter, in  which  peaches  were  arranged  side  by  side  so  as  to 
avoid  pressure.  Here  I thought  of  a verse  which  I had 
seen  written  on  the  window  of  the  inn  at  Ratisbon : — 


86 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


“ Comme  les  peclies  et  les  melons 
Sont  pour  la  boiiclie  d’un  baron, 

Ainsi  les  verges  et  les  batons 
Sont  pour  les  fous,  (lit  Salomon.” 

It  is  ODvioiis  that  this  was  written  by  a northern  baron  ; 
and  no  less  clear  is  it,  that,  if  he  were  in  this  country,  he 
would  alter  his  notions. 

At  the  Botzen  fair  a brisk  silk-trade  is  carried  on. 
Cloths  a also  brought  here,  and  as  much  leather  as  can 
be  procii  < from  the  mountain  districts.  Several  mer- 
chants, h 'ver,  came  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  depositing 
their  money,  mkiug  orders,  and  opening  new  credits.  1 felt 
I could  ^“’ve  taken  great  delight  in  examining  the  various 
products  it  were  collected  here  ; but  the  impulse,  the  state 
of  disq  ^YInch  keeps  urging  me  from  behind,  would  not 
let  me  1 .ana  I must  at  once  hasten  from  the  spot.  For 
my  cons  .ion,  however,  Ahr  whole  matter  is  printed  in  the 
statistic^  apers  ; and  we  can,  if  we  require  it.  get  such 
instructk  ■;  rfrom  books.  I have  now  to  deal  only  with  the 
sensible  ' pressions,  which  no  book  or  picture  can  give.  In 
fact,  I ai  ^igain  taking  an  interest  in  the  world  ; I am  testing 
my  facul  of  observation,  and  trying  how  far  I can  go  with 
my  scieni  and  ray  acquirements,  how  far  my  eye  is  clear 
and  sharp,  how  much  I can  take  in  at  a hasty  glance,  and 
whether  those  wrinkles  that  are  imprinted  upon  my  heart 
are  ever  again  to  be  effaced.  Even  in  these  few  days,  the 
circumstance  that  1 have  had  to  wait  upon  myself,  and  have 
always  been  obliged  to  keep  my  attention  and  presence  of 
mind  on  the  alert,  has  given  me  quite  a new  elasticity  of 
intellect.  I must  now  busj’  m3’self  with  the  currency,  must 
change,  paj%  note  down,  write  ; while  I formerl}'  did  nothing 
but  think,  will,  reflect,  command,  and  dictate. 

From  Botzen  to  Trent  the  stage  is  nine  leagues,  and  runs 
through  a valley  which  constantly  increases  in  fertility. 
All  that  merely  struggles  into  vegetation  on  the  higher  moun- 
tains has  here  more  strength  and  vitality’ : the  sun  shines 
with  warmth,  and  there  is  once  more  belief  in  a Deity. 

A poor  woman  cried  out  to  me  to  take  her  child  into  my 
vehicle,  as  the  hot  soil  was  burning  its  feet.  I did  her  this 
little  service  in  honor  of  the  strong  light  of  heaven.  The 
child  was  strangely  decked  out,  but  I could  get  nothing 
from  it  in  anv  way. 

The  Etsch  flows  more  genth’  in  these  parts,  and  it  makes 
broad  deposits  of  gravel  in  many  places.  On  the  land,  near 


lettp:rs  from  italy. 


S7 


the  river  and  up  the  hills,  the  planting  is  so  thick  and  close 
that  one  fancies  one  thing  rvill  suffocate  the  other.  It  is  a 
regular  thicket  of  vineyards,  maize,  mulberry-trees,  apples, 
pears,  quinces,  and  nuts.  The  danewort  {Atticli)  thrives 
luxuriantly  on  the  rvalls.  Ivy  vith  solid  stems  runs  up  the 
rocks,  on  which  it  spreads  itself.  The  lizards  glide  through 
the  interstices ; and  whatever  has  life  or  motion  here, 
reminds  one  of  the  most  charming  works  of  art.  The 


braided  top-knots  of  the  women,  the  bared  breas/  • .nd  light 
jackets  of  the  men,  the  fine  oxen  which  j’bu-  .e  driven 
home  from  market,  the  laden  asses,  all  comi  ■ to  pro- 
duce one  of  Heinrich  Roos’s  animated  pictures'.  'And  when 
evening  draws  on,  and  through  the  calmness  of  e air  a 
few  clouds  rest  upon  the  mountains,  rather  sta  ig  than 
running  against  the  sky,  and  as,  immediately  a sunset, 
the  chirp  of  the  grasshoppers  begins  to  grow  lorn  je  feels 
quite  at  home  in  the  world,  and  -not  a mere  exile.  am  as 
reconciled  to  the  place  as  if  I were  born  and  brt  . it,  and 

had  now  just  returned  from  Greenland,  fron  whaling 
expedition.  Even  the  dust,  which  here,  as  in  oL  country, 
often  plays  about  my  wheels,  and  which  has  so  Ion  emaiued 
strange  to  me,  I welcome  as  an  old  friend.  T1  bell-like 
voice  of  the  cricket  is  most  piercing,  and  far  fro  unpleas- 
ant. A cheerful  effect  is  produced  when  pla}fful  boys 
whistle  against  a field  of  such  singers,  and  j’ou  almost  fancy 
that  the  sound  on  each  side  is  raised  by  emulation.  The 
evening  here  is  perfectly  mild,  no  less  so  than  the  day. 

If  any  one  who  lived  in  the  South,  or  came  from  the 
South,  heard  my  enthusiasm  about  these  matters,  he  would 
consider  me  very  childish.  Alas  ! what  I express  here,  I 
long  ago  was  conscious  of  while  suffering  under  an 

o o o 

unkindly  sky ; and  now  I love  to  experience  as  an  exception 
the  happiness  I hope  soon  to  enjoy  as  a regular  natural 
necessity. 


Tkext. 

The  evening  of  the  10th  September. 

I have  wandered  about  the  city,  which  has  an  old,  not  to 
say  a very  primitive,  look,  though  there  are  new  and  well- 
, built  houses  in  some  of  the  streets.  In  the  church  there  is  a 
j picture  in  which  is  represented  the  assembled  council  of  the 
Jesuits  listening  to  a sermon  delivered  by  the  general  of  the 
order.  I should  like  to  know  what  he  is  trying  to  palm 
I upon  them.  The  church  of  these  fathers  may  at  once  be 


88 


LETTERS  FRf):\l  ITALY. 


recognized  from  the  outside  by  pilasters  of  red  marble  on 
the  fa(;ade.  I'lie  doors  are  covered  by  a heav}’  cnitain, 
which  serves  to  keep  off  the  dust.  I raised  it,  and  entered  a 
small  vestibule.  The  church  itself  is  parted  otf  by  an  iron 
grating,  but  so  that  it  can  be  entirely  overlooked.  All  was 
as  silent  as  the  grave,  for  divine  service  is  no  longer  per- 
formed here.  The  front-door  stood  open,  merel}^  because 
all  churches  must  be  open  at  the  time  of  vespers. 

While  I stood  considering  the  architecture,  which  was,  I I 

found,  similar  to  other  Jesuit  churches,  an  old  man  stepped  |> 

in,  and  at  once  took  off  his  little  black. cap.  His  old  faded  i| 
black  coat  indicated  that  he  was  a need}'  priest.  He  knelt  j| 
down  before  the  grating,  and  rose  again  aftet  a short  prayer.  r 
’W'hen  he  turned  round,  he  said  to  himself,  half  aloud, 
“Well,  they  have  driven  out  the  Jesuits;  but  they  ought 
to  have  paid  them  the  cost  of  the  church.  I know  how 
many  thousands  were  spent  on  the  church  and  the  semi- 
nary.” As  he  uttered  this,  he  left  the  spot,  and  the  cur- 
tain fell  behind -him.  I lifted  it  again,  and  kept  quiet. 

He  remained  a while  standing  on  the  topmost  step,  and  said, 
“The  emperor  did  not  do  it:  the  pope  did  it.”  AVith  his  i 
face  turned  towards  the  street,  so  that  he  could  not  observe  j 

me,  he  continued,  “First  the  Spaniards,  then  we,  then  the  ; 

French.  The  blood  of  Abel  cries  out  against  his  brother 
Cain!”  And  thus  he  went  down  the  steps,  and  along  the 
street,  still  talking  to  himself.  I should  conjecture  he  is 
one,  who,  having  been  maintained  liy  the  Jesuits,  has  lost 
his  wits  in  consequence  of  the  tremendous  fall  of  the  order, 
and  now  comes  every  day  to  search  the  empty  vessel  for 
its  old  inhaljitants,  and,  after  a short  prayer,  to  pronounce 
a curse  upon  their  enemies. 

A young  man  whom  I questioned  about  the  remarkable 
sights  in  the  town  showed  me  a house  which  is  called  the 
“ Devil’s  house,”  because  the  devil,  who  is  generally  too 
ready  to  destroy,  is  said  to  have  built  it  in  a single  night, 
with  stones  rapidly  brought  to  the  spot.  However,  what  is 
really  remarkable  about  the  house,  the  good  man  had  not 
observed  ; namely,  that  it  is  the  only  house  of  good  taste 
that  I have  yet  seen  in  Trent,  and  was  certainly  built  by 
some  good  Italian,  at  an  earlier  period.  At  five  o’clock  in 
the  evening  I again  set  off.  The  spectacle  of  yesterday 
evening  was  repeated,  and  at  sunset  the  grasshoppers  again 
began  to  sing.  For  about  a league  the  journey  lies  between 
walls  above  which  the  grape-espaliers  are  visible.  Other 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


89 


walls,  which  are  not  high  enough,  have  been  eked  out  with 
stones,  thorns,  etc.,  to  prevent  passengers  from  plucking  off 
the  grapes.  Many  owners  sprinkle  the  foremost  rows  with 
lime,  which  renders  the  grapes  uneatable,  but  does  not  hurt 
the  wine,  as  the  process  of  fermentation  drives  out  the  hete- 
rogeneous matter. 


Evening  of  Sept.  11. 

I am  now  at  Roveredo,  where  a marked  distinction  of 
language  begins : hitlierto  it  has  fluctuated  between  Ger- 
man and  Italian.  I have  now,  for  the  first  time,  had  a thor- 
oughly Italian  yostilion.  The  inn-keeper  does  not  speak  a 
word  of  German,  and  I must  put  my  own  linguistic  powers  to 
the  test.  How  delighted  I am  that  the  language  I have 
always  loved  most  now  becomes  living,  — the  language  of 
common  usage ! 


Toebole,  12th  September. 

After  dinner. 

How  much  do  I wish  that  ray  friends  were  with  me  for  a 
moment  to  enjoy  the  prospect  which  now  lies  before  m3"  e3"es  ! 

I might  have  been  in  Verona  this  evening;  but  a magnifi- 
cent natural  phenomenon  was  in  my  vicinity,  — Lake  Garda, 
a splendid  spectacle,  which  I did  not  want  to  miss  ; and  now 
I am  nobly  rewarded  for  taking  this  circuitous  route. 
After  five  o’clock  I started  from  Roveredo,  up  a side  valley, 
which  still  pours  its  waters  into  the  Etsch.  After  ascending 
this,  3"ou  come  to  an  immense  rock3"  bar,  which  3"Ou  must 
cross, in  descending  to  the  lake.  Here  appeared  the  finest 
calcareous  rocks  for  pictorial  stud}^.  On  descending,  3'ou 
come  to  a little  village  on  the  northern  end  of  the  lake,  with 
a little  port,  or  rather  landing-place,  which  is  called  Torbole. 
On  m3"  wa3"  up,  I was -coustantl3’'  accompanied  by  fig-trees; 
and,  descending  into  the  rocky  atmosphere,  I found  the  first 
olive-tree  full  of  fruit.  Here,  also,  for  the  first  time,  I found 
as  a common  fruit  those  little  white  figs  which  the  Countess 
Lanthieri  had  promised  me. 

A door  opens  from  the  chamber  in  which  I sit,  into  the 
court3’ard  below.  Before  this  I have  placed  my  table,  and 
taken  a rough  sketch  of  the  prospect.  The  lake  may  be  seen 
for  its  whole  length,  and  it  is  only  at  the  end  towards  the 
left  that  it  vanishes  from  our  e3'es.  The  shore,  which  is 
enclosed  on  both  sides  by  hill  and  mountain,  shines  with  a 
countless  number  of  little  hamlets. 


90 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


After  midnight  the  wind  blows  from  north  to  south ; and 
he  who  wishes  to  go  down  the  lake  must  travel  at  this  time, 
for  a few  hours  before  sunset  the  current  of  air  changes,  and 
moves  northward.  At  this  time  (the  afternoon)  it  blows 
strongly  against  me,  and  pleasantly  qualifies  the  buruiug 
heat  of  the  sun.  Volkraanu  teaches  me  that  this  lake  was 
formerly  called  “ Benacus,”  and  quotes  from  VirgQ  a line  in 
which  it  was  mentioned  : — 

“ Fluctibus  et  fremiter  resonans,  Benace,  marino.” 

This  is  the  first  Latin  verse  the  subject  of  which  ever 
stood  visibl}’  before  me ; and  now,  in  the  present  moment, 
when  the  wind  is  blowing  more  and  more  strongly,  and  the 
lake  casts  loftier  billows  against  the  little  harbor,  it  is  just 
as  true  as  it  was  hundreds  of  years  ago.  Much,  indeed,  has 
changed  ; but  the  wind  still  roars  about  the  lake,  the  aspect 
of  which  gains  even  greater  glory  from  a line  of  Virgil’s. 

The  above  was  written  in  a latitude  of  45°  50/ 

I went  out  for  a walk  in  the  cool  of  the  evening : and  now 
I really  find  mj'self  in  a new  country,  surrounded  by  objects 
entirely  strange.  The  people  lead  a careless,  sauntering  life. 
In  the  first  place,  the  doors  are  without  locks  ; but  the  host 
assured  me  that  I might  be  quite  at  ease,  even  though  all  I 
had  about  me  eousisted  of  diamonds.  In  the  second  place, 
the  windows  are  covered  with  oiled  paper  instead  of  glass. 
In  the  third  place,  an  extremely  necessary  convenience  is 
wanting,  so  that  one  comes  pretty  close  to  a state  of  nature. 
When  1 asked  the  waiter  for  a certain  place,  he  pointed 
down  into  the  courtyard:  “ Qui,  abasso  puo  servirsi!”  — 
“ Dove?”  asked  I.  “ Da  per  tutto,  dove  vuol,”  was  the 
friendly  reply.  The  greatest  carelessness  is  visible  every- 
where, but  still  there  is  life  and  bustle  enough.  During 
the  whole  daj'  the  women  of  the  neighborhood  are  incessantly 
chattering  and  shrieking : all  have  something  to  do  at  the 
same  time.  I have  not  yet  s^n  an  idle  woman. 

The  host,  with  Italian  emphasis,  assured  me  that  he  felt 
great  pleasure  in  being  able  to  serve  me  with  the  finest  trout. 
They  are  taken  near  Torbole,  where  the  stream  flows  down 
from  the  mountains,  and  the  fish  seeks  a passage  upward. 
The  emperor  farms  this  fishery  for  ten  thousand  gulden. 
The  fish,  which  are  large  (often  weighing  fifty  pounds),  and 
spotted  over  the  whole  bod}’  to  the  head,  are  not  ti'outj 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


91 


properly  so  called.  The  flavor,  which  is  between  tha*  of 
trout  and  salmon,  is  delicate  and  excellent. 

But  my  real  delight  is  in  the  fruit,  — in  the  figs  and  in  th<» 
pears,  which  must,  indeed,  be  excellent,  where  citrons  aj"^ 
already  growing. 


Evening  of  Sept.  13. 

At  three  o’clock  this  morning  I started  from  Torbole  with  a 
couple  of  rowers.  At  first  the  wind  was  so  favorable  that 
we  put  up  a sail.  The  morning  was  cloudy,  but  fine,  and  per- 
fectly calm  at  daybreak.  We  passed  Limoua,  the  mountain 
gardens  of  which  — laid  out  terrace-fashion,  and  planted  with 
citron-trees  — have  a neat  and  rich  appearance.  The  whole 
garden  consists  of  rows  of  square  white  pillars  placed  at 
some  distance  from  each  other,  and  rising  up  the  mountain 
in  steps.  On  these  pillars  strong  beams  are  laid,  that  the 
trees  planted  between  them  may  be  sheltered  in  the  winter. 
The  view  of  these  pleasant  objects  was  favored  by  a slow 
passage ; and  we  had  ahead}'  passed  Malsesine  when  the 
wind  suddenly  changed,  took  the  direction  usual  in  the  day- 
time, and  blew  towards  the  north.  Rowing  was  of  litle  use 
against  this  superior  power,  and  therefore  we  were  forced 
to  land  in  the  harbor  of  Malsesine.  This  is  the  first  Venetian 
spot  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  lake.  When  one  has  to  do 
with  water,  we  cannot  say,  “ I will  be  at  this  or  that  particu- 
lar place  to-day.”  I will  make  my  stay  here  as  useful  as 
'I  can,  especially  by  making  a drawing  of  the  castle,  which 
lies  close  to  the  water,  and  is  a beautiful  object.  As  I passed 
along,  1 took  a sketch  of  it. 

Sept.  14. 

The  wind,  which  blew  against  me  yesterday,  and  drove  me 
into  the  harbor  of  Malsesine,  was  the  cause  of  a perilous 
adventure,  which  I got  over  with  good  humor,  and  the  re- 
membrance of  which  I still  find  amusing.  According  to  my 
plan,  I went  early  in  the  morning  into  the  old  castle,  which, 
having  neither  gate  nor  guard,  is  accessible  to  everybody. 
Entering  the  courtyard,  I seated  myself  opposite  to  the  old 
tower,  which  is  built  on  and  among  the  rocks.  Here  I had 
selected  a very  convenient  spot  for  drawing,  — a carved  stone 
seat  in  the  wall,  near  a closed  door,  raised  some  three  or 
four  feet  high,  such  as  we  also  find  in  the  old  buildings  in  our 
own  eouutry. 

I had  not  sat  long,  before  several  persons  entered  the 


92 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


yai  d,  and  walked  backward  and  forward,  looking  at  me.  The 
multitude  increased,  aud  at  last  so  stood  as  completely  to 
surround  me.  I remarked  that  my  drawing  hacl  excited 
attention.  However,  I did  not  allow  myself  to  be  disturbed, 
but  quietly  continued  my  occupation.  At  last  a man,  not 
of  the  most  prepossessing  appearance,  came  up  to  me,  aud 
asked  me  what  I was  about.  I replied  that  1 was  copying  R 
the  old  tower,  that  I might  have  some  remembrance  of  5lal-  I 
sesine.  He  said  that  this  was  not  allowed,  and  that  I must 
leave  off.  As  he  said  this  in  the  common  Venetian  dialect, 
so  that  I understood  him  with  difficulty,  I answered  that  I 
did  not  understand  him  at  all.  With  time  Italian  coolness 
he  took  hold  of  mj'  paper,  and  tore  it,  at  the  same  time  let- 
ting it  remain  on  the  pasteboard.  Here  I observed  an  air  of  : 
dissatisfaction  among  the  bystanders.  An  old  woman,  in 
particular,  said  that  it  was  not  right,  but  that  the  podesla  ! 
ought  to  be  called,  who  was  the  best  judge  of  such  matters.  I t 
stood  upright  on  the  steps,  having  mj'  back  against  the  door,  I 
and  surveyed  the  assemblj’,  which  was  continually  increasing. 

The  fixed,  eager  glances,  the  good-humored  expression  of  > 
most  of  the  faces,  and  all  the  other  charactenstics  of  a foreign 
mob,  made  the  most  amusing  impression  upon  me.  I fancied  ! 
that  I could  see  before  me  the  chorus  of  birds,  which,  as 
Treufreund,  I had  often  laughed  at  in  the  Ettersburg  theatre. 
This  put  me  in  excellent  humor ; and,  when  the  podesta  came 
up  with  his  actuaiy,  I greeted  him  in  an  open  manner,  and, 
when  he  asked  me  why  I was  drawing  the  fortification, 
modestly  replied  that  I did  not  look  upon  that  wall  as  a forti- 
fication. I called  the  attention  of  him  and  the  people  to  the 
decay  of  the  towers  and  walls,  and  to  the  general!}'  defence- 
less position  of  the  place,  assuring  him  that  I thought  I only 
saw  and  drew  a ruin. 

I was  answered  thus  : “If  it  was  only  a ruin,  what  could 
there  be  remarkable  about  it?’’  As  I wished  to  gain  time 
and  favor,  I replied,  very  circumstantially,  that  they  must  be 
well  aware  how  many  travellers  visited  Italy  for  the  sake  of 
the  ruins  only  ; that  Rome,  the  metropolis  of  the  world,  hav- 
ing suffered  the  depredations  of  barbarians,  was  now  full  of 
ruins,  which  had  been  drawn  hundreds  of  times  : and  that  all 
the  works  of  antiquity  were  not  in  such  good  preser\  ation  as 
the  amphitheatre  at  Verona,  which  I hoped  soon  to  see. 

The  podesta,  who  stood  before  me.  though  in  a less  elevated 
position,  was  a tall  man.  not  exactly  thin,  of  about  thirty 
years  of  age.  The  flat  features  of  his  spiritless  face  per- 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


93 


fectly  accorded  with  the  slow,  constrained  manner  in  which 
he  put  his  questions.  Even  the  actuary,  a sharp  little  fellow, 
seemed  as  if  he  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  a case  so  new 
and  so  unexpected.  I said  a great  deal  of  the  same  sort. 
The  people  seemed  to  take  my  remarks  good-naturedly  ; and, 
on  turning  towards  some  kindly  female  faces,  I thought  I 
could  read  assent  and  approval. 

When,  however,  I mentioned  the  amphitheatre  at  Verona, 
which  in  this  country  is  called  the  “Arena,”  the  actuary, 
who  had  in  the  mean  while  collected  himself,  replied  that  this 
was  all  very  well,  because  the  edifice  in  question  was  a Roman 
building,  famed  throughout  the  world.  In  these  towers, 
however,  there  was  nothing  remarkable,  excepting  that  they 
marked  the  boundary  between  the  Venetian  domain  and  Aus- 
trian Empire  ; and  therefore  espionage  could  not  be  allowed. 
I answered  by  explaining,  at  some  length,  that  not  only  the 
Greek  and  Roman  antiquities,  but  also  those  of  the  middle 
ages,  were  worth  attention.  They  could  not  be  blamed, 
I granted,  if,  having  been  accustomed  to  this  building  from 
their  3'outh  upwards,  they  could  not  discern  in  it  so  many 
picturesque  beauties  as  I did.  Eortunately  the  morning  sun 
shed  the  most  beautiful  lustre  on  the  tower,  rocks,  and 
walls  ; and  I began  to  describe  the  scene  with  enthusiasm. 
My  audience,  however,  had  these  much  lauded  objects  behind 
them  ; and,  as  they  did  not  wish  to  turn  altogether  away  from 
me,  they  all  at  once  twisted  their  hands,  like  the  birds,  which 
we  call  “ wry-necks  ” {Wendelidlse) , that  they  might  see 
with  their  eyes  what  I had  been  lauding  to  their  ears.  Even 
the  podestd  turned  round,  though  with  more  dignity  than  the 
rest,  towards  the  picture  I had  been  describing.  This  scene 
appeared  to  me  so  ridiculous  that  my  good  humor  increased, 
and  I spared  them  nothing,  least  of  all,  the  ivy,  which  had 
been  suffered  for  ages  to  adorn  the  rock  and  walls. 

The  actuary  retorted,  that  this  was  all  very  well : but  the 
Emperor  Joseph  was  a troublesome  gentleman,  who  certainly 
entertained  manj^  evil  designs  against  Venice  ; and  I might, 
probably,  have  been  one  of  his  subjects,  appointed  by  him, 
to  act  as  a spy  on  the  borders. 

“ Far  from  belonging  to  the  emperor,”  I replied,  “I  can 
boast,  as  well  as  you,  that  I am  a citizen  of  a republic  which 
also  governs  itself,  but  which  is  not,  indeed,  to  be  compared 
for  power  and  greatness  to  the  illustrious  state  of  Venice, 
although  in  commercial  activity,  in  wealth,  and  in  the  wisdom 
;of  its  rulers,  it  is  inferior  to  no  state  in  Germany.  I am  a 


94 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


native  of  Frankfort-on-the-Maiu,  a city  the  name  and  fame  |J 
of  which  has  doubtless  reached  3’ou.”  11 

“ Of  Frankfort-on-the-Main  ! ” cried  a pretty  young  wo-  J 
man.  “ Then,  Mr.  Podesta,  3’Ou  can  at  once  see  all  about  |l 
the  foreigner,  whom  I look  upon  as  an  honest  man.  Let  i 
Gregorio  be  called : he  has  resided  there  a long  time,  and  f 
will  be  the  best  judge  of  the  matter.”  I 

The  kindl3'  faces  had  already  increased  around  me ; the  I 
first  adversar3^  had  vanished  ; and,  when  Gregorio  came  to  the  ^ 
spot,  the  whole  affair  took  a decided  turn  in  m3''  favor.  He  ! 
was  a man  upwards  of  fift3’,  with  one  of  those  well-known  • 
Italian  faces.  He  spoke  and  conducted  himself  like  one  i 
who  feels  that  something  foreign  is  not  foreign  to  him,  and 
told  me  at  once  that  he  had  seen  service  in  Bolongari’s 
house,  and  would  be  delighted  to  hear  from  me  something 
about  this  famil3^  and  the  cit3'  in  general,  which  had  left  a 
pleasant  impression  in  his  meinoiy.  Fortunatel3',  his  resi-  > 
dence  at  Frankfort  had  been  during  my  3'ounger  years  : and  : 
I had  the  double  advantage  of  being  able  to  say  exactly  how  ^ 
matters  stood  in  his  time,  and  what  alteration  had  taken  i 
place  afterwards.  I told  him  about  all  the  Italian  families,  ! 
none  of  whom  had  remained  unknown  to  me.  With  many  j 
particulars  he  was  lughl3'  delighted,  as,  for  instance,  with  t 
the  fact  that  Herr  Alessiua  had  celebrated  his  golden  -u-ed-  ' 
ding  ” Mn  the  year  1774,  and  that  a medal  had  been  struck  i 
on  the  occasion,  which  was  in  m3'  possession.  He  reniem-  i 
bered  that  the  wife  of  this  wealthy  merchant  was  b3’  birth  a 
Brentano.  I could  also  tell  him  something  about  the  chil-  1 
dreu  and  grandchildren  of  these  families, — how  the3’  had 
grown  up,  and  had  been  provided  for  and  married,  and 
had  multiplied  in  their  descendants. 

When  I had  given  the  most  accurate  information  about 
almost  eveiy  thing  about  which  he  had  asked,  his  features 
alternately  expressed  cheerfulness  and  solemuit3'.  He  was 
' pleased  and  touched  ; while  the  people  cheered  up  more  and 
more,  and  could  not  hear  too  much  of  our  conversation,  of 
w'hich,  it  must  be  confessed,  he  was  obliged  to  translate  a 
part  into  their  own  dialect. 

At  last  he  said,  ‘‘  Podesta,  I am  convinced  that  this  is  a 
good,  accomplished,  and  well-educated  gentleman,  who  is 
travelling  about  to  acqume  instruction.  We  will  let  hun 
depart  in  a friendly  manner,  that  he  may  speak  well  of  us  to 
his  fellow-countrymen,  and  induce  them  to  ^dsit  Malsesiue, 

1 The  fiftieth  .tnuivei'saiy  of  a wedding-day  is  so  called  in  Germany.  — Teass. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


95 


the  beautiful  situation  of  .which  is  well  worthy  the  admira- 
tion of  foreigners.”  I gave  additional  force  to  these  kind 
[ v/^ords  by  praising  the  couutiy,  the  situation,  and  the  iuhabit- 
f ants,  not  forgetting  to  mention  the  magistrates  as  wise  and 
i prudent  personages. 

! This  was  well  received ; and  I had  permission  to  visit  the 
[place  at  pleasure,  in  company  with  Master  Gregorio.  The 
[landlord  with  whom  I had  put  up  now  joined  us,  aud  was 
I delighted  at  the  prospect  of  the  foreign  guests  who  would 
[crowd  upon  him  when  once  the  advantages  of  Malsesiue 
;were  properly  known.  With  the  most  lively  curiosity  he 
.'examined  my  various  articles  of  dress,  but  especially  envied 
Sme  the  possession  of  a little  pistol,  which  slipped  conven- 
■iently  into  the  pocket.  He  congratulated  those  who  could 
!carry  such  pretty  weapons ; this  being  forbidden  in  his 
iicouiitry,  under  the  severest  penalties.  This  friendl}^  but 
jobtrusive  personage  I sometimes  interrupted  to  thank  my 
[deliverer.  “ Do  not  thank  me,”  said  honest  Gregorio  ; “ for 
lyou  owe  me  nothing.  If  the  pddesta  had  understood  his 
|business,  and  the  actuary  had  not  been  the  mosi  selfish  man 
liu  the  world,  you  would  not  have  got  off  so  easily.  The 
'former  was  still  more  puzzled  than  you ; and  the  latter 
.would  have  pocketed  nothing  by  your  arrest,  the  informa- 
tion, aud  your  removal  to  Verona.  This  he  rapidly  consid- 
|ered,  and  you  were  already  free  before  our  dialogue  was 
ended.” 

I Towards  the  evening  the  good  man  took  me  into  his  \ine- 
yard,  which  was  very  well  situated,  down  along  the  lake. 
We  were  accompanied  by  his  sou,  a lad  of  fifteen,  who  was 
Iforced  to  climb  the  trees,  and  pluck  me  the  best  fruit,  while 
,ithe  old  man  looked  out  for  the  ripest  grapes, 
i While  thus  placed  between  these  two  kind-hearted  people, 
ooth  strange  to  tlie  world,  alone,  as  it  were,  in  the  deep  soli- 
tude of  the  earth,  I felt  in  the  most  lively  manner,  as  I 
reflected  on  the  day’s  adventure,  what  a whimsical  being 
'nan  is ; how  the  very  thing  which  in  company  he  miglit 
enjoy  with  ease  and  security,  is  often  rendered  troublesome 
ind  dangerous,  from  his  notion  that  he  can  appropriate  to 
limself  the  world  aud  its  contents  after  his  own  peculiar 
fashion. 

I Towards  midnight  my  host  accompanied  me  to  the  bark, 
'‘.arrying  the  basket  of  fruit  with  which  Gregorio  had  pre- 
sented me,  aud  thus,  with  a favorable  wind,  1 left  the  shore, 
Ivhich  had  promised  to  become  for  me  a Lsestrygonicum  shore. 


96 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


And  now  for  my  expedition  on  the  lake.  It  ended  hap- 
pily, after  the  noble  aspect  of  the  water,  and  of  the  adjacent 
shore  of  Brescia,  had  refreshed  my  very  heart.  On  the  west- 
ern side,  where  the  mountains  cease  to  be  perpendicular,  and 
near  the  lake,  the  land  becomes  more  flat.  Garignano, 
Bojaco,  Cecina,  Toscolan,  Maderno,  Verdom,  and  Salo, 
stand  all  in  a row,  and  occupy  a reach  of  about  a league  and 
a half  ; most  of  them  being  built  in  long  streets.  No  words 
can  express  the  beauty  of  this  richly  inhabited  spot.  At  ten 
o’clock  in  the  morning,  1 landed  at  Bartolino,  placed  my  lug- 
gage on  one  mule,  and  myself  on  another.  The  road  went 
now  over  a ridge  which  separates  the  valley  of  the  Etsch 
from  the  hollow  of  the  lake.  The  primeval  waters  seem  to 
have  driven  against  each  other  from  both  sides,  in  immense 
currents,  and  to  have  raised  this  colossal  dam  of  gravel.  A 
fertile  soil  was  deposited  upon  the  gravel  at  a quieter  period, 
but  the  laborer  is  constantly  auno3'ed  bv'  the  appearance  of 
the  stones  on  the  surface.  Flverj'  effort  is  made  to  get 
rid  of  them.  They  are  piled  in  rows  and  la^’ers  one  on 
another,  and  thus  a sort  of  thick  wall  is  formed  along  the 
path.  The  mulberry-trees,  from  a want  of  moisture,  have  a 
dismal  appearance  at  this  elevation.  Springs  there  are  none. 
From  time  to  time  puddles  of  collected  rain-water  may  be 
found,  with  which  the  mules,  and  even  their  drivers,  queucli 
their  thirst.  Some  wheels  are  placed  on  the  river  beneath, 
to  water  at  pleasure  those  plantations  that  have  a lower 
situation. 

The  magnificence  of  the  new  countiy,  which  opens  on  you 
as  3’ou  descend,  surpasses  description.  It  is  a garden  a mile 
long  and  broad,  which  lies  quite  flat  at  the  foot  of  tall  moun- 
tains and  steep  rocks,  and  is  as  neatly  laid  out  as  possible. 
By  this  wajq  about  one  o’clock  on  the  lOtb  of  September.  I 
reached  Verona,  where  I first  Avi’ite  this,  finish,  and  put 
together  the  first  part  of  my  diaiy,  and  indulge  in  the 
pleasing  hope  of  seeing  the  amphitheatre  in  the  evening. 

Concerning  the  weather  of  these  daj's  I have  to  make  the 
following  statement.  The  night  from  the  9th  to  the  lOth 
was  alternately  clear  and  cloudy  : the  moon  had  always  a 
halo  round  it.  Towards  five  o’clock  in  the  morning,  all  the 
sky  was  overcast  with  gray,  not  hea\y  clouds,  which 
vanished  with  the  advance  of  day.  The  more  I descended, 
the  finer  was  the  weather.  As  at  Botzen  the  great  mass  of 
the  mountains  took  a northerly  situation,  the  air  displayed 
quite  another  qualitj'.  From  the  different  grounds  in  the 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


97 


. landscape,  which  were  separated  from  each  other  in  the  most 
i picturesque  manner,  by  a tint  more  or  less  blue,  it  might  be 
. seen  that  the  atmosphere  was  full  of  vapors  equallj'  distrib- 
uted, which  it  was  able  to  sustain,  and  which,  therefore, 
neither  fell  in  the  shape  of  dew,  nor  were  collected  in  the 
form  of  clouds.  As  I descended  farther,  I could  plainly 
observe  that  all  the  exhalations  from  the  Botzen  Valley,  and 
all  the  streaks  of  cloud  which  ascended  from  the  more 

■ southern  mountains,  moved  towards  the  higher  northern 
regions,  which  they  did  not  cover,  but  veiled  with  a kind  of 
yellow  fog.  In  the  remotest  distance,  over  the  mountains,  I 

I could  observe  what  is  called  a “ water-gull.”  To  the  south 
of  Botzen  they  have  had  the  finest  weather  all  the  summer, 
only  a little  water  (they  say  aqua  to  denote  a light  rain) 

1 from  time  to  time,  and  then  a return  of  sunshine.  Yester- 
,day  a few  drops  occasionally'  fell,  and  the  sun  throughout 

■ continued  shining.  They  have  not  had  so  good  a year  for  a 
long  while ; every  thing  turns  out  well : the  bad  weather  they 
have  sent  to  us. 

I mention  but  slightly  the  mountains  and  the  species  of 
stone;  since  Ferber’s  “Travels  to  Italy,”  and  Hacquet’s 
“Journey  along  the  Alps,”  give  sufficient  information  re- 
specting this  district.  A quarter  of  a league  from  the  Bren- 
ner, there  is  a marble  quarry,  which  I passed  at  twilight.  It 
may,  nay  must,  lie  upon  mica-slate,  as  on  the  other  side. 
This  I found  near  Cohnan,  just  as  it  dawned:  lower  down 
there  was  au  appearance  of  porphyry.  The  rocks  were  so 
magnificent,  and  the  heaps  were  so  conveniently  broken  up 
,along  the  highway,  that  a “ Voigt  ” cabinet  might  have  been 
made  and  packed  up  at  once.  Without  any  trouble  of  that 
kind,  I can  take  a piece,  if  it  is  only  to  accustom  my  eyes 
and  my  curiosity  to  a small  quantity.  A little  below  Col- 
man,  I found  some  porphyry,  which  splits  into  regular  plates, 
land,  between  Brandrol  and  Neumark,  some  of  a similar 
iind,  in  which,  however,  the  laminae  separated  in  pillars. 
^Ferber  considered  them  to  be  volcanic  productions  ; but  that 
rvas  fourteen  years  ago,  when  all  the  world  had  its  head  on 
Ire.  Even  Hacquet  ridicules  the  notion. 

Of  the  people  I can  say  but  little,  and  that  is  not  veiy 
I'avorable.  On  my  descent  from  the  Brenner,  I discovered, 
iis  soon  as  day  came,  a decided  change  of  form,  and  was 
)articularly  displeased  by  the  pale,  brownish  complexion  of 
;he  women  : their  features  indicated  wretchedness.  The  chil- 
Iren  looked  equally  miserable,  the  men  somewhat  better. 


98 


LETTERS  EROM  ITALY. 


I imagine  that  the  cause  of  this  sickly  condition  may  be 
found  in  the  frequent  consumption  of  Indian  corn  and  buck- 
vrheat.  Both  tlie  former  (which  the}"  also  call  “Yellow 
Blende”)  and  the  latter  (which  is  called  “ Black  Blende  ”) 
are  ground,  made  into  a thick  pap  with  water,  and  thus  eaten.  I 
The  Germans  on  this  side  pull  out  the  dough,  and  fry  it  in  I 
butter.  The  Italian  Tyrolese,  on  the  contrary,  eat  it  just  as  i 
it  is,  often  with  scrapings  of  cheese,  and  do  not  taste  meat  l 
throughout  the -year.  This  necessarily  glues  up  aucL  stops  j * 
the  alimentary  channels,  especially  with  the  women  and  chil-  {i 
dreii ; and  their  cachectic  complexion  is  an  indication  of  the  i 
malady.  They  also  eat  fruit  and  green  beans,  which  they 'I 
boil  down  in  w'ater,  and  mix  with  oil  and  garlic.  I asked  4 
if  there  were  no  rich  peasants.  “ Y'es,  indeed!”  was  the  : i 
reply.  “ Don’t  they  indulge  themselves  at  all  ? don’t  they  eat 
any  thing  better?  ” — “ No,  they  are  used  to  it.”  — “ What  ; 
do  they  do  with  their  money,  then?  how  do  they  lay  it  out?  ” j 
— “Oh!  they  have  their  ladies,  who  relieve  them  of  that.”  j 
This  is  the  sum  and  substance  of  a conversation  with  mine  1 
host’s  daughter  at  Botzeu. 

I also  learned  from  her  that  the  vine-tillers  were  the  worst  J 
off,  although  they  appeared  to  be  the  most  opulent ; for  they  j 
M"ere  in  the  hands  of  commercial  towus-people,  who  advanced  j 
them  euoflgh  to  support  life  in  the  bad  seasons,  and  in  win-  1 
ter  took  their  wine  at  a low  price.  However,  it  is  the  same  ^ 
thing  everywhere.  ' 

My  opinion  concerning  the  food  is  confirmed  by  the  fact  j 
that  the  women  who  inhabit  the  towns  appear  better  and 
better.  They  have  pretty,  plump,  girlish  faces.  The  body  ( 
is  somewhat  too  short,  in  proportion  to  the  stoutness  and  the  J 
size  of  the  head ; but  sometimes  the  countenances  have  a / 
most  agreeable  expression.  The  men  we  already  know  j 
through  the  wandering  Tyrolese.  In  the  country  their  ap-  i 
pearance  is  less  fresh  than  that  of  the  women,  perhaps  ( 
because  the  latter  have  more  bodily  labor,  and  are  more  in  i 
motion;  while  the  former  sit  at  home  as  traders  and  work-  i 
men.  By  the  Garda  Lake  I found  the  people  very  brown,  •• 
without  the  slightest  tinge  of  red  in  their  cheeks : however, 
they  did  not  look  unhealthy,  but  quite  fresh  and  comfortable. 
Probably  the  burning  sunbeams  to  which  they  are  exposed  : 
at  the  foot  of  their  mountains  are  the  cause  of  their  com- 
plexion. 


LETTERS  FR0:M  ITALY. 


99 


FROM  VERONA  TO  VENICE. 


Veeona,  Sept.  16. 


! Well,  then,  the  Amphitheatre  is  the  first  important  monu- 
ment of  the  old  times  that  1 have  seen  ; and  how  well  it  is 
•preserved ! When  I entered,  and  still  more  when  I walked 
round  the  edge  of  it  at  the  top,  it  seemed  strange  to  me 
[that  1 saw  something  great,  and  yet,  properly  speaking,  saw 
'nothing.  Besides,  1 do  not  like  to  see  it  empty.  I should 
[like  to  see  it  full  of  people,  just  as,  in  modern  times,  it  was 
lilled  up  in  honor  of  Joseph  I.  and  Pius  VI.  The  emperor, 
ialthough  his  eye  was  accustomed  to  human  masses,  must 
have  been  astonished.  But  it  was  only  in  the  earliest  times 
that  it  produced  its  full  effect,  when  the  people  was  more 
'a  people  than  it  is  now.  For,  properly  speaking,  such  an 
amphitheatre  is  constructed  to  give  the  people  an  imposing 
jpew  of  itself,  — to  cajole  itself. 


! When  any  thing  worth  seeing  occurs  on  the  level  ground, 
land  any  one  runs  to  the  spot,  the  hiudermost  try  by  every 
kneans  to  raise  themselves  above  the  foremost : they  get 
upon  benches,  roll  casks,  bring  up  vehicles,  lay  planks  in 
'^very  direction,  occupy  the  neighboring  heights,  and  a crater 
s formed  in  no  time. 

If  the  spectacle  occur  frequently  on  the  same  spot,  light 
iicaffoldings  are  built  for  those  who  are  able  to  pay,  and  the 
•est  of  the  multitude  must  get  on  as  it  can.  Here  the  prob- 
em  of  the  architect  is  to  satisfy  this  general  wmut.  By 
neans  of  his  art  he  prepares  such  a crater,  making  it  as 
■imple  as  possible,  that  the  people  itself  may  constitute  the 
lecoratiou.  When  the  populace  saw  itself  so  assembled,  it 
inust  have  been  astonished  at  the  sight ; for  whereas  it  was 
uly  accustomed  to  see  itself  running  about  in  confusion,  or 
|o  find  itself  crowded  together  without  particular  rule  or 
rder,  so  must  this  many-headed,  many-minded,  wandering 
■nimal  now  see  itself  combined  into  a noble  body,  made  into 

definite  unity,  bound  and  secured  into  a mass,  and  ani- 
lated  as  onfe  form  by  one  mind.  The  simplicity  of  the 
'val  is  most  pleasingly  obvious  to  every  e}’e,  and  every  head 
lerves  as  a measure  to  show  the  vastuess  of  the  whole. 
iiow  we  see  it  empty,  we  have  no  standard,  and  do  not 
now  whether  it  is  large  or  small. 

The  Veronese  deserve  commendation  fordhe  high  preser- 
;ation  in  which  this  edifice  is  kept.  It  is  built  of  a reddish 


100 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


marble,  -w  hich  has  been  affected  by  the  atmosphere ; and 
hence  the  steps,  -which  have  been  eaten,  are  continually 
restored,  and  look  almost  all  new.  An  inscription  make's 
mention  of  one  Hieronymus  Manrigenus,  and  of  the  incredi- 
ble industry  which  he  has  expended  on  this  monument.  f>f 
the  outer  wall  only  a piece  remains,  and  I doubt  whether  it 
was  ever  quite  finished.  The  lower  arches,  which  adjoin 
the  large  square  called  “ II  Bra,”  are  let  out  to  workmen; 
and  the  re-animation  of  these  arcades  produces  a cheerful 
appearance. 


Yerox.\,  Sept.  16. 

The  most  beautiful  gate,  which,  however,  always  remains 
closed,  is  called  “Porta  stupa,”  or  “del  Pallio.”  As  a 
gate,  and  considering  the  great  distance  from  which  it  is 
first  seen,  it  is  not  well  conceived  ; and  it  is  not  till  we  come 
near  it,  that  we  recognize  the  beauty  of  the  structure. 

All  sorts  of  reasons  are  given  to  account  for  its  being 
closed.  I have,  however,  a conjecture  of  my  own.  It  was 
manifestly  the  intention  of  the  artist  to  cause  a new  Corso 
to  be  laid  out  from  this  gate  ; for  the  situation,  or  the  pres- 
ent street,  is  completely  wrong.  On  the  left  side  there  is 
nothing  but  barracks  ; and  the  line  at  right  angles  from  the 
middle  of  the  gate  leads  to  a convent  of  nuns,  which  must 
certainly  have  come  down.  This  was  presently  perceived; 
and,  besides,  the  rich  and  higher  classes  might  not  have 
liked  to  settle  in  the  remote  quarter.  The  artist,  perhaps, 
died  ; and  therefore  the  door  was  closed,  and  so  an  end  was 
put  to  the  affam. 


Verox.4.,  Sept.  16. 

The  portico  of  the  theatre,  consisting  of  six  large  Ionic 
columns,  looks  handsome  enough.  So  much  the  more  puny 
is  the  appearance  of  the  Marchese  di  Maffei’s  bust,  which 
as  large  as  life,  and  in  a great  wig,  stands  over  the  door, 
and  in  front  of  a painted  niche  which  is  supported  by  two 
Corinthian  columns.  The  position  is  honorable  ; but.  to  be  iu 
some  degree  proportionate  to  the  magnitude  and  solidity  ot 
the  columns,  the  bust  should  have  been  colossal.  But  now. 
placed  as  it  is  on  a corbel,  it  has  a mean  appearance,  and  is 
by  no  means  iu  harmony  with  the  whole. 

The  gallery  which  encloses  the  fore-court  is  also  small 
and  the  channelled  Doric  dwarfs  have  a mean  appearance  la 
the  side  of  the  smooth  Ionic  giants.  But  we  pardon  this 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


101 


J cliscrepancj^  on  account  of  the  fine  institution  which  has 
i been  founded  among  the  columns.  Here  is  kept  a number  of 
i anticpiities,  which  have  mostly  been  dug  up  in  and  about 
t Verona.  Something,  they  say,  has  even  been  found  in  the 
f Amphitheatre.  There  are  Etruscan,  Greek,  and  Roman 
i specimens,  down  to  the  latest  times,  and  some  even  of  more 
i modern  date.  The  bas-reliefs  are  inserted  in  the  walls,  and 
. provided  with  the  numbers  which  Maffei  gave  them  when 
I he  described  them  in  his  work,  ‘"Verona  Illustrata.” 
There  are  altars,  fragments  of  columns,  and  other  relics  of 
; the  sort ; an  admirable  tripod  of  white  marble,  upon  which 
there  are  genii  occupied  with  the  attributes  of  the  gods. 
1 Raphael  has  imitated  and  improved  this  kind  of  thing  in  the 
i:  scrolls  of  the  Farnesiua. 

i The  wind  which  blows  from  the  graves  of  the  ancients 
; comes  fragrantly  over  hills  of  roses.  The  tombs  give  touch- 
ing evidences  of  a genuine  feeling,  and  always  bring  life 
i back  to  us.  Here  is  a man  by  the  side  of  his  wife,  who 
: peeps  out  of  a niche,  as  if  it  were  a v.uudow.  Here  are 
: father  and  mother,  with  their  sou  between  them,  eying  each 
I other  as  naturally  as  possible.  Here  a couple  are  grasping 
I each  other’s  hands.  Here  a father,  resting  on  his  couch, 
seems  to  be  amused  by  his  family.  The  immediate  prox- 
! imity  of  these  stones  was  to  me  highly  touching.  They 
f belong  to  a later  school  of  art,  but  are  simple,  natural,  and 
I:  generally  pleasing.  Here  a man  in  armor  is  on  liis  knees,  in 
; expectation  of  a joyful  resurrection.  'With  more  or  less  of 
' talent,  the  artist  has  produced  the  mere  simple  presence  of 
I the  persons,  and  has  tlius  given  a permanent  continuation  to 
their  existence.  Tliey  do  not  fold  their  hands,  they  do  not 
look  towards  heaven ; but  they  are  here  below  just  what  they 
i were  and  just  what  they  are.  The}’  stand  together,  take 
I interest  in  each  other,  love  one  another ; and  this  is  charm- 
) iugly  expressed  on  the  stone,  though  witli  a certain  want  of 
; technical  skill.  A marble  pillar  very  richly  adorned  gave 
! me  more  new  ideas. 

Laudable  as  this  institution  is,  we  can  plainly  perceive 
; that  the  noble  spirit  of  preservation,  by  which  it  was 
' founded,  is  no  longer  continued.  The  valuable  tripod  will 
I soon  be  ruined,  placed  as  it  is  in  the  open  air,  and  ex- 
I posed  to  the  weather  towards  the  west.  This  treasure  might 
i easily  be  preserved  in  a wooden  ease. 

The  Palace  of  the  Proveditore,  whicli  is  begun,  might 
i have  afforded  a fine  specimen  of  architecture,  if  it  had  been 

f 

\ 


102 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


finished.  Generally  speaking,  the  nobili  bnild  a great  deal ; 
but,  unfortunately,  every  one  builds  on  the  site  of  his  former  . 
residence,  and  often,  therefore,  in  narrow  lanes.  Thus,  for  ' 
instance,  a magnificent  fac;ade  to  a seminary  is  now  building 
in  an  ally  of  the  remotest  suburb. 

While,  with  a guide  whom  I had  accidentally  picked  up,  V 
T passed  before  the  great  solemn  gate  of  a singular  building,  I 
he  asked  me  good  humorcdly  whether  I should  not  like  to  I 
step  into  the  court  for  a while.  It  was  the  Palace  of  Justice ; ' 

and  the  court,  on  account  of  the  height  of  the  building,  i 
looked  only  like  an  enormous  wall.  Here,  he  told  me,  all  [ 
the  criminals  and  suspicious  persons  are  confined.  I looked 
around,  and  saw'  that  round  all  the  stories  there  were  open 
passages,  fitted  with  iron  balustrades,  which  passed  by 
numerous  doors.  The  prisoner,  as  he  stepped  out  of  his  ; 
dungeon  to  be  led  to  trial,  stood  in  the  open  air,  and  was  ' 
exposed  to  the  gaze  of  all  passers  ; and,  because  tliere  were 
several  trial-rooms,  the  chains  were  rattling,  now  over  tliis, 
now  over  tliat  passage,  in  every  story.  It  was  a hateful  < 
sight,  and  I do  not  deny  that  the  good  humor  with  which  I 
had  despatched  my  “Bu'ds”  might  here  have  come  into  a 
strait. 

I walked  at  sunset  upon  the  margin  of  the  crater-like  Am- 
phitheatre, and  enjo3’ed  the  most  splendid  prospect  over  the 
town  and  the  surrounding  countiy.  I was  quite  alone,  and  i 
multitudes  of  people  were  passing  below'  me  on  the  hard  ' 
stones  of  the  Bra.  Men  of  all  ranks,  and  women  of  the  mid- 
dle ranks,  w’ere  walking.  The  latter,  in  their  black  outer  gar-  || 
ments,  look,  in  this  bird’s-eye  view,  like  so  many  mummies. 

The  Zendede  and  the  Veste,  Avhich  serve  this  class  in  ^ 

the  place  of  an  entire  wardrobe,  is  a costume  completely  \ 

fitted  for  a people  that  does  not  care  much  for  cleanliness,  I 

and  yet  always  likes  to  appear  in  public,  — sometimes  at  J 

church,  sometimes  on  the  promenade.  The  Veste  is  a gown  i 

of  black  taffeta,  which  is  thrown  over  other  gowns.  If  the  I 

lady  has  a clean  white  one  beneath,  she  contrives  to  lift  up 
the  black  one  on  one  side.  This  is  fastened  on  so  as  to 
cut  the  waist,  and  to  cover  the  lappets  of  a corset,  which 
may  be  of  any  color.  The  Zendale  is  a large  hood  with  i 

long  ears.  The  hood  itself  is  kept  high  above  the  head  by 
a wire  frame,  while  the  ears  are  fastened  round  the  body  ! 
like  a scarf,  so  that  the  ends  fall  down  behind. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


103 


I ’ Verona,  Sept.  16. 

When  I again  left  the  Arena  to-day,  I came  to  a modern 
public  spectacle,  about  a thousand  paces  from  the  spot. 
Four  noble  Veronese  were  playing  ball  against  four  people 
! of  Vicenza.  This  pastime  is  carried  on  among  the  Veronese 
i themselves  all  the  year  round,  about  two  hours  before  night, 
i On  this  occasion  there  was  a far  larger  concourse  of  people 
j than  usual,  on  account  of  the  foreign  adversaries.  The 
! spectators  seem  to  have  amounted  to  four  or  five  thousand. 
I did  not  see  women  of  any  rank. 

When,  a little  while  ago,  I spoke  of  the  necessities  of  the 
1 multitude  in  such  a case,  I described  the  natural  accidental 
amphitheatre  as  arising  just  in  the  manner  in  which  I saw 
the  people  raised  one  over  another  on  this  occasion.  Even 
at  a distance,  I could  hear  the  lively  clapping  of  hands 
. which  accompanied  every  important  stroke.  The  game  is 
played  as  follows ; two  boards,  slightly  inclined,  are  placed 
; at  a convenient  distance  from  each  other.  He  who  strikes 
off  the  ball  stands  at  the  higher  end : his  right  hand  is  armed 
‘ with  a broad  wooden  ring,  set  with  spikes.  While  another 
1 of  his  party  throws  the  bail  to  him,  he  runs  down  to  meet  it, 

. and  thus  increases  the  force  of  the  blow  with  which  he 
strikes  it.  The  adversaries  try  to  beat  it  back  ; and  thus  it 
goes  backward  and  forward,  till  a,t  last  it  remains  on  the 
ground.  The  most  beautiful  attitudes,  worthy  of  being  imi- 
tated in  marble,  are  thus  produced.  As  there  are  none  but 
well-grown,  active  young  people,  in  a short,  close  white 
dress,  the  parties  are  only  distinguished  by  a yellow  mark. 
Particularly  beautiful  is  the  attitude  into  which  the  man  on 
the  eminence  falls,  when  he  runs  down  the  inclined  plane, 
and  raises  his  arm  to  strike  the  ball : it  approaches  that  of 
the  Borghesian  gladiator. 

It  seemed  strange  to  me  that  they  carry  on  this  exercise  by 
an  old  lime-wall,  without  the  slightest  convenience  for  spec- 
tators. Why  is  it  not  done  in  the  Amphitheatre,  where  there 
would  be  such  ample  room  ? 

• 

Verona,  Sept.  17. 

V\Tiat  I have  seen  of  pictures  I will  but  briefly  touch  upon, 
and  add  some  I’emarks.  I do  not  make  this  extraordinary 
tour  for  the  sake  of  deceiving  myself,  but  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  myself  by  means  of  these  objects.  I therefore 
honestly  confess,  that  of  the  painter’s  art,  of  his  manipula- 
I tiou,  I understand  but  little.  My  attention  and  observation 


104 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


can  only  be  directed  to  the  practical  part,  to  the  subject,  afed 
the  gener.'i'  treatment  of  it. 

St.  Ge-  'I’gio  is  a gallery  of  good  pictures,  — all  altar-pieces, 
and  all  remarkable,  if  not  of  equal  value.  But  vhat  subjects 
were  the  hapless  artists  obliged  to  paint ! And  for  whom? 
Perhaps  a shower  of  manna  thirty  feet  long  and  twenty  feet 
high,  with  the  miracle  of  the  loaves  as  a eompaniou.  "What  ' 
could  be  made  of  these  subjects  ? Hungry  men  falling  on  little 
grains,  and  a countless  multitude  of  others,  to  whom  bread  ■ 
is  handed.  The  artists  have  racked  their  invention  in  order 
to  get  something  striking  out  of  such  wretched  subjects.  And 
yet,  stimulated  by  the  urgeney  of  the  case,  genius  has  pro- 
duced some  beautiful  things.  An  artist  who  had  to  paint 
St.  Ursula  with  the  eleven  thousand  virgins  has  got  over  the 
difficulty  cleverly  enough.  The  saint  stands  in  the  foreground, 
as  if  she  had  conquered  the  country.  She  is  very  noble,  like 
an  Amazonian  virgin,  and  without  any  enticing  charms : on  : 
the  other  hand,  her  ti’oop  is  shown  descending  from  the 
ships,  and  moving  in  procession  at  a diminishing  distance. 
The  Assumption  of  the  Virgin,  by  Titian,  in  the  dome,  has 
become  much  blackened  ; aud  it  is  a thought  worthy  of  praise, 
that,  at  the  moment  of  her  apotheosis,  she  looks,  not  towards 
heaven,  but  towards  her  friends  below. 

In  the  Gherardini  Gallery  I found  some  very  fine  things  by  ' 
Orbitto,  aud  for  the  first  time  became  acquainted  witli  this  I 
meritorious  artist.  At  a distance  we  only  hear  of  the  fimt  ^ 
artists,  aud  then  we  are  often  contented  with  names  only ; i 
but  when  we  draw  nearer  to  this  starry  skj’.  aud  the  lumina-  i 
ries  of  the  second  aud  third  magnitude  also  begin  to  twinkle,  l 
each  one  coming  forward,  and  occupying  his  proper  place  in  • 
the  whole  constellation,  then  the  world  becomes  wide,  and  art 
becomes  rich.  I must  here  commend  the  conception  of  one 
of  the  pictures.  Samson  has  gone  to  sleep  in  the  lap  of 
Delilah,  aud  she  has  softly  stretched  her  hand  over  him  to 
reach  a pair  of  scissors,  which  lies  iiear  the  lamp  on  the  table. 
The  execution  is  admirable.  In  the  Canopa  Palace  I observed 
a Dauiie. 

The  Bevilagua  Palace  contains  the  most  valuable  things. 

A picture  by  Tintoretto,  which  is  called  a “ I'aradise.”  but 
which,  in  fact,  represents  the  coronation  of  the  Virgin  IMary 
as  queen  of  heaven,  in  the  presence  of  all  the  patriarchs, 
prophets,  apostles,  saints,  angels,  etc.,  affords  an  opportunity 
for  displaying  all  the  riches  of  the  most  felicitous  genius.  To 
admire  and  enjoy  all  that  care  of  luauipulatiou,  that  spirit 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


105 


and  variety  of  expression,  it  is  necessary  to  possess  the  pic- 
ture, and  to  have  it  before  one  all  one’s  life.  The  painter’s 
work  is  carried  on  ad  infinitum.  Even  the  farthei't  angels’ 
heads,  which  are  vanishing  in  the  halo,  preserve  something 
of  character.  The  largest  figures  may  be  about  a foot  high  ; 
Maiy,  and  the  Christ  who  is  crowning  her,  about  four  inches. 
Eve  is,  however,  the  finest  woman  in  the  picture,  — a little 
voluptuous,  as  from  time  immemorial. 

A couple  of  portraits  by  Paul  Veronese  have  only  increased 
my  veneration  for  that  artist.  The  collection  of  antiquities 
is  very  fine.  There  is  a son  of  Niobe  extended  in  death,  which 
is  highly  valuable  ; and  the  busts,  including  an  Augustus  with 
the  civic  crown,  a Caligula,  and  others,  are  mostly  of  great 
interest,  notwithstanding  the  restoration  of  the  noses. 

It  is  in  my  nature  to  admii-e,  willingly  and  joyfully,  all 
that  is  great  and  beautiful ; and  the  eultis’-ation  of  this  talent 
day  after  day,  hour  after  hour,  by  the  inspection  of  such  beau- 
tiful objects,  produces  the  happiest  feeliugs. 

In  a land  where  we  enjo}’  the  days,  but  take  especial  de- 
light in  the  evenings,  the  time  of  nightfall  is  highly  important : 
for  now  work  ceases  ; those  who  have  gone  out  walking  turn 
back  ; the  father  wishes  to  have  his  daughter  home  again ; 
the  day  lias  an  end.  "What  the  day  is,  we  Cimmerians  hardly 
1 know.  In  our  eternal  mist  and  fog,  it  is  the  same  thing  to 
' us  whether  it  be  day  or  night ; for  how  much  time  can  we 
, really  pass  and  enjoy  in  the  open  air?  Now,  when  night  sets 
; in,  the  day,  which  consisted  of  a morning  and  an  evening,  is 
i decidedly  past ; four  and  twenty  hours  are  gone  ; the  bells 
ring,  the  rosary  is  taken  in  hand,  and  the  maid,  entering  the 
chamber  with  the  lighted  lamp,  says,  Felicissima  notte.” 
This  epoch  varies  with  every  season  ; and  a man  who  lives 
here  m actual  life  cannot  go  wrong,  because  all  the  enjoy- 
ments of  his  existence  are  regulated,  not  by  the  nominal 
I hour,  but  by  the  time  of  da}*.  If  the  people  were  forced  to 
use  a German  clock,  they  would  be  perplexed,  for  their  own 
' is  intimately  connected  with  their  nature.  About  an  hour 
and  a half,  or  an  hour,  before  nightfall,  the  nobility  begin  to 
ride  out.  They  proceed  to  the  Piazza  della  Bra,  along  the 
long,  broad  street,  to  the  Porta  Nuova,  out  at  the  gate,  and 
along  the  city,  and,  when  night  sets  in,  they  all  return  home. 
Sometimes  they  go  to  the  churches  to  say  their  Ave  Maria 
della  sera ; sometimes  they  keep  on  the  Bra,  where  the  cava- 
liers step  up  to  the  coaches,  and  converse  for  a while  with  the 
; ladies.  The  foot-passengers  remain  till  a late  hour  of  night ; 


106 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


but  I have  never  stopped  till  the  last.  To-day  just  enough 
rain  had  fallen  to  lay  the  dust,  and  the  spectacle  was  most 
cheerful  and  animated. 

That  I may  accommodate  myself  the  better  to  the  custom 
of  the  country,  I have  devised  a plan  for  mastering  more  easily 
the  Italian  method  of  reckoning  the  hours.  The  accompan}’- 
ing  diagram  may  give  an  idea  of  it.  The  inner  circle  denotes 
our  four  and  twenty  hours,  from  midnight  to  midnight,  divided  if 
into  twice  twelve,  as  we  reckon  and  as  our  clocks  indicate.  I| 
The  middle  circle  shows  how  the  clocks  strike  at  the  present  'b 
season  ; namely,  as  much  as  twelve  twice  in  the  twenty-four  p 
hours,  but  in  such  a way  that  it  strikes  one  when  it  strikes  ^ 
eight  with  us,  and  so  on  till  the  number  twelve  is  complete.  £ 
At  eight  o’clock  in  the  morning,  according  to  our  clock,  it  i) 
again  strikes  one,  and  so  on.  Finally,  the  outer  circle  shows 
how  the  four  and  twenty  hours  are  reckoned  in  actual  life,  i 
For  example,  I hear  seven  o’clock  striking  in  the  night,  and  I 
know  that  midnight  is  at  five  o’clock  : I therefore  deduct  the  " 
latter  number  from  the  former,  and  thus  have  two  hours  after  v 
midnight.  If  I hear  seven  o’clock  strike  in  the  daytime,  and  I 
know  that  noon  is  at  five,  I proceed  in  the  same  way,  and 
thus  have  two  in  the  afternoon . Bnt,  if  I wish  to  express  the  i 
hour  according  to  the  fashion  of  this  countiy,  I must  know  >i 
that  noon  is  seventeen  o’clock  : I add  the  two,  and  get  nine-  i 
teen  o’clock.  When  this  method  is  heard  and  thought  of  for  i 
the  first  time,  it  seems  extremel}"  confused,  and  difficult  to 
manage  ; but  we  soon  grow  accustomed  to  it,  and  find  the  > 
occupation  amusing.  The  people  themselves  take  delight  in 
this  perpetual  calculation,  just  as  children  are  pleased  with  i 
easily  surmounted  difficulties.  Indeed,  they  always  have  their 
fingers  in  the  air,  make  anj"  calculation  in  their  heads,  and 
like  to  occupy  themselves  with  figures.  Besides,  to  the 
inhabitant  of  the  countiy,  the  matter  is  so  much  the  easier, 
as  he  really  does  not  trouble  himself  about  noon  and  mid- 
night, and  does  not,  like  tlie  foreign  resident,  compare  two 
clocks  with  each  other.  Thej'  only  count  from  the  eA'ening 
the  hours  as  they  strike,  and  in  the  daytime  they  add  the 
number  to  the  varying  number  of  noon,  with  which  they  are 
acquainted.  The  rest  is  explained  by  the  remarks  appended 
to  the  diagram  : — 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


107 


COMPAMTIVE  TABLE  OF  GERMAN  AND  ITALIAN  TIME, 

WITH  THE  HOURS  OF  THE  ITALIAN  SUN-DIAL  FOR  THE  LATTER 
HALF  OF  SEPTEMBER, 


TETE  NIGHT  LENGTHENS  HALF  AN  HOUR 
EVERT  FORTNIGHT. 


Month. 

Day. 

Time  of 
night  as 
shown 
by  Ger- 
man 
clocks. 

Mid- 

night 

conse- 

quently 

falls 

about 

August  . . . 

1 

“ ... 

15 

8 

4 

September  . . 

1 

Ik 

ik 

“ ... 

15 

7 

5 

October  . . . 

1 

6^ 

5| 

... 

15 

6 

6 

November  . . 

1 

15 

5 

7 

Fi’om  this  date  the  time  remains  con- 
stant, and  it  is : — 


THE  DAT  LENGTHENS  HALF  AN  HOUR 
EVERT  FORTNIGHT. 


Month. 

Day. 

Time  of 
night  as 
shown 
by  Ger- 
man 
clocks. 

Mid- 

night 

conse- 

quently 

falls 

about 

February  . . 

1 

5i 

“ ... 

15 

6 

6 

March  . . . 

1 

ek 

5i 

“ .... 

15 

7 

5 

April .... 

1 

7.^ 

4i 

15 

8 

4 

May  .... 

1 

81 

3 

15 

9 

3 

From  this  date  the  time  remains  con- 
stant, and  it  is  : — 


Night. 

Midnight. 

- 

Night. 

Midnight. 

December  ; . . ) 

June } 

January  . . . . j 

7 

July i 

3 

108 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


Verona,  Sept.  17.  ; 

The  people  here  jostle  one  another  actively  enough.  The  ; 
narrow  streets,  wliere  shop.s  and  workmen’s  stalls  are  thickly  ' 
crowded  together,  have  a particularly  cheerful  look.  There  i 
is  no  such  thing  as  a door  in  front  of  the  shop  or  workroom : 
the  whole  breadth  of  the  house  is  open,  and  one  may  see  all  ■ 
that  passes  in  the  interior.  Halfwai'  out  into  the  path  the 
tailors  are  sewing,  and  the  cobblers  are  pulling  and  rapping : 
indeed,  the  work-stalls  make  a part  of  the  street.  In  the 
evening,  when  the  lights  are  burning,  the  appearance  is  most  1 
lively.  ' 

The  squares  are  very  full  on  market-days.  There  are  fruit  | 
and  vegetables  without  number,  and  garlic  and  onions  to  the  | 
heart’s  desire.  Then,  again,  throughout  the  day  there  is  a 
ceaseless  screaming,  bantering,  singing,  squalling,  huzzaing, 
and  laughing.  The  mildness  of  the  air  and  the  cheapness 
of  the  food  make  subsistence  easy.  Every  thing  possible  is 
done  in  the  open  air. 

At  night,  singing  and  all  sorts  of  noises  begin.  The  ballad  : 
of  “ Maiibrook  ” is  heard  in  every  street;  then  comes  a j 
dulcimer,  then  a violin.  They  try  to  imitate  all  the  birds  i 

with  a pipe.  The  strangest  sounds  are  heard  on  every  side.  I 

A mild  climate  can  give  this  exquisite  enjoyment  of  mere  i 
existence,  even  to  poverty  ; and  the  very  shadow  of  the  people 
seems  venerable. 

The  want  of  cleanliness  and  convenience  which  so  much 
strikes  us  in  the  houses,  arises  from  the  following  cause : 
the  inhabitants  are  always  out  of  doors,  and  in  their  light- 
heartedness think  of  nothing.  "With  the  people  all  goes 
right.  Even  the  middle-class  man  just  lives  on  from  day  to 
day  ; while  the  rich  and  genteel  shut  themselves  up  in  their 
dwellings,  which  are"  not  so  habitable  as  in  the  north.  So- 
ciety is  found  in  the  open  streets.  Fore-courts  and  colon- 
nades are  all  soiled  with  filth,  for  things  are  done  in  the  most 
natural  manner.  The  people  always  feel  their  way  before 
them.  The  rich  man  may  be  rich,  and  build  his  palaces, 
and  the  nobile  may  rule  ; but,  if  he  makes  a colonnade  or  a 
fore-court,  the  people  will  make  use  of  it  for  their  own 
occasions,  and  have  no  more  urgent  wish  than  to  get  rid  as 
soon  as  possible  of  that  which  they  have  taken  as  often  as 
possible.  If  a person  cannot  bear  this,  he  must  not  play 
the  great  gentleman  ; that  is  to  say,  he  must  act  as  if  a part 
of  his  dwelling  belonged  to  the  public.  He  maj-  shut  his 
door,  and  all  will  be  right.  But  in  open  buildings  the  people 


LETTERS  FROM  ITAI.Y. 


luy 

are  not  to  be  debarred  of  their  privileges  ; and  this,  through- 
out Italy,  is  a nuisance  to  the  foreigner. 

To-da}^  1 remarked  in  several  streets  of  the  town  the 
customs  and  maimers  of  the  middle  classes  especially,  who 
appear  very  numerous  and  busy.  They  swung  their  arms  as 
they  walk.  Persons  of  a high  rank,  who  on  certain  occasions 
wear  a swmrd,  swing  only  one  arm,  being  accustomed  to 
hold  the  left  arm  still. 

Although  the  people  are  careless  enough  with  respect  to 
their  own  wants  and  occupations,  they  have  a keen  eye  for 
every  thing  foreign.  Thus  in  the  very  first  days  I observed 
that  every  one  took  notice  of  my  boots  : because  here  they 
are  too  expensive  an  article  of  dress  to  wear,  even  in  wduter. 
Now  that  I wear  shoes  and  stockings,  nobody  looks  at  me. 
Particularly  I noticed  this  morning,  when  all  were  running 
about  with  flowers,  vegetables,  garlic,  and  other  market-stuff, 
that  a twig  of  cypress  wTich  I carried  in  my  hand  did  not 
escape  their  attention.  Some  green  cones  hung  upon  it,  and 
I held  in  the  same  hand  some  blooming  caper-twigs.  Every- 
body, large  and  small,  w'atched  me  closely,  and  seemed  to 
entertain  some  whimsical  thought. 

I brought  these  twigs  from  the  Giusti  Garden,  which  is 
finely  situated,  and  in  which  there  are  monstrous  cypresses, 
all  pointed  up  like  spikes  into  the  air.  The  taxus,  which  iu 
northern  gardening  we  find  cut  to  a sharp  point,  is  probably 
an  imitation  of  this  splendid  natural  product.  A tree  the 
branches  of  which,  the  oldest  as  w'ell  as  the  youngest,  are 
striving  to  reach  heaven  ; a tree  which  will  last  its  three  hun- 
dred years,  — is  well  worthy  of  ven“e ration.  Judging  from 
the  time  when  this  garden  was  laid  out,  these  trees  have 
already  attained  that  advanced  age. 


Vicenza,  Sept.  IS). 

The  way  from  Verona  hither  is  very  pleasant.  We  go 
north-eastward  along  the  mountains,  alwaj’s  keeping  to  the 
left  the  foremost  mountains,  which  consist  of  sand,  lime, 
clay,  and  marl : the  hills  which  they  form  are  dotted  with 
villages,  castles,  and  houses.  To  the  right  extends  the 
broad  plain  along  which  the  road  goes.  The  straight  broad 
path,  which  is  in  good  preservation,  goes  through  a fertile 
field.  We  look  into  deep  avenues  of  trees,  up  which  the  vines 
are  trained  to  a considerable  height,  and  then  drop  dowm, 
like  pendent  branches.  Here  we  can  get  an  admirable  idea 
of  festoons.  The  grapes  are  ripe,  and  are  heavy  on  the 


110 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


tendrils,  which  hang  down  long  and  trembling.  The  road  is 
filled  with  people  of  every  class  and  occupation  ; and  I was 
particularly  pleased  by  some  carts  with  low,  solid  wheels, 
which,  with  teams  of  fine  oxen,  carry  the  large  vats  in  which 
the  grapes  from  the  vineyards  are  put  and  pressed.  The 
drivers  rode  in  them  when  they  were  empty,  and  the  whole 
was  like  a triumphal  procession  of  Bacchanals.  Between  ; 
the  ranks  of  vines  the  ground  is  used  for  all  sorts  of  grain,  | 
especially  Indian  corn  and  millet  (Sorgel). 

As  one  goes  toward  Vicenza,  the  hiUs  again  rise  from 
north  to  south,  and  enclose  the  plain.  They  are,  it  is  said,  ' 
volcanic.  Vicenza  lies  at  their  foot,  or,  if  you  will,  in  a t 
bosom  which  they  form. 


VicExzA,  Sept.  19. 

Though  I have  been  here  only  a few  hours,  I have  already 
run  through  the  town,  and  seen  the  Olympian  Theatre  and  ' 
the  buildings  of  Palladio.  A vei’y  prettj’  little  book  is  pub- 
lished here,  for  the  convenience  of  foreigners,  with  copper-  ^ 
plates  and  some  letter-press,  that  shows  knowledge  of  art.  j 
When  once  one  stands  in  the  preseuce  of  these  works,  one  | 
immediately  perceives  their  great  value ; for  they  are  cal-  I 
culated  to  fill  the  eye  with  their  actual  greatness  and  mas-  « 
siveness,  and  to  satisfy  the  mind  by  the  beautiful  harmouy 
of  their  dimensions,  not  only  in  abstract  sketches,  but  with  i 
all  the  prominences  and  distances  of  perspective.  Therefore 
I say  of  Palladio,  he  was  a man  realh"  and  intrinsically  great, 
whose  greatness  was  outwardly  manifested.  The  chief  dif- 
ficulty with  which  this  man,  like  all  modern  architects,  had  to 
struggle,  was  the  suitable  application  of  the  orders  of  columns 
to  buildings  for  domestic  or  public  use ; for  there  is  always 
a contradiction  in  the  combination  of  columns  and  walls. 

But  with  what  success  he  has  worked  them  up  together  I I 
What  an  imposing  effect  the  aspect  of  his  edifices  has  ! at 
the  sight  of  them  one  almost  forgets  that  he  is  attempting 
to  reconcile  us  to  a violation  of  the  rules  of  his  art.  There  i 
is,  indeed,  something  divine  about  his  designs,  which  may 
be  exactly  compared  to  the  creations  of  the  great  ^met,  who 
out  of  truth  and  falsehood  elaborates  something  between 
both,  and  charms  us  with  its  borrowed  existence. 

The  Olympic  Theatre  is  a theatre  of  the  ancients,  which  is 
realized  on  a small  scale,  and  is  indescribably  beautiful.  How- 
ever, compared  with  our  theatres,  it  reminds  me  of  a genteel, 
rich,  well-bred  child,  contrasted  with  a shrewd  man  of  the 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


Ill 


world,  who,  though  he  is  neither  so  rich,  nor  so  genteel  and 
well-bred,  knows  better  how  to  employ  his  resources. 

If  we  contemplate  on  the  spot  the  noble  buildings  which 
Palladio  has  erected,  and  see  how  they  are  disfigured  by  the 
mean,  filthy  necessities  of  the  people,  how  the  plans  of  most 
of  them  exceeded  the  means  of  those  who  undertook  them, 
and  how  little  these  precious  monuments  of  one  lofty  mind 
are  adapted  to  all  else  arouud,  the  thought  occurs,  that  it  is 
just  the  same  with  every  thing  else  ; for  we  receive  but  little 
thanks  from  men,  when  we  would  elevate  their  inner  aspira- 
tions, give  them  a great  idea  of  themselves,  and  make  them 
feel  the  grandeur  of  a really  noble  existence.  But  when  one 
cajoles  them,  tells  them  tales,  and,  helping  them  on  from  day 
to  da}s  makes  them  worse,  then  one  is  just  the  man  they 
like  ; and  hence  it  is  that  modern  times  take  delight  in  so 
many  absurdities.  I do  not  say  this  to  lower  my  friends  : I 
only  say  that  they  are  so,  and  that  people  must  not  be  aston- 
ished to  find  every  thing  just  as  it  is. 

How  the  Basilica  of  Palladio  looks  by  the  side  of  an  old 
castellated  kind  of  a building,  dotted  all  over  with  windows 
of  different  sizes  (whose  removal,  tower  and  all,  the  artist 
evidently  contemplated),  it  is  impossible  to  describe:  and 
besides,  I must  now,  by  a strange  effort,  compress  my  own 
feelings  ; for  I,  too,  alas  ! find  here  side  by  side  both  what  I 
seek  and  what  I flee  from. 


Sept.  20. 

Yesterday  we  had  the  opera,  which  lasted  till  midnight ; 
and  I was  glad  to  get  some  rest.  The  “ Three  Sultanesses  ” 
and  the  ‘ ‘ Rape  of  the  Seraglio  ’ ’ have  afforded  several  tat- 
ters, out  of  which  the  piece  has  been  patched  up,  with  very 
little  skill.  The  music  is  agreeable  to  the  ear,  but  is  prob- 
ably bj^  an  amateur ; for  not  a single  thought  struck  me  as 
being  new.  The  ballets,  on  the  other  hand,  were  charming. 
The  principal  pair  of  dancers  executed  an  Allemande  to  per- 
fection.- 

The  theati-e  is  new,  pleasant,  beautiful,  modestly  maguifi- 
ceut,  uniform  throughout,  just  as  it  ought  to  be  in  a provincial 
towu.  Every  box  has  hangings  of  the  same  color  ; and  the 
one  belonging  to  the  Cajiitau  Grande  is  only  distinguished 
from  the  rest  by  the  fact  that  the  hangings  are  somewhat 
longer. 

The  prima  domm,  who  is  a great  favorite  of  the  whole 
people,  is  tremendously  applauded  on  her  entrance  ; and  the 


112 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


“gods”  are  quite  obstreperous  with  their  delight  when  she  I 
does  any  thing  remarkably  well,  which  very  often  happens,  j 
Her  manners  are  natural : she  has  a pretty  figure,  a fine  voice,  1 
a pleasing  countenance,  and,  above  all,  a really  modest 
demeanor,  while  there  might  be  more  gi-ace  in  the  arms,  -j 
However,  I am  not  what  I was.  I feel  that  I am  spoiled  — - 
I am  spoiled  for  a “ god.” 

Sept.  21. 

To-day  I visited  Dr.  Tura.  Five  years  ago  he  passion- 
ately devoted  himself  to  the  study  of  plants,  formed  an  herba- 
rium  of  the  Italian  flora,  and  laid  out  a botanical  garden, 
under  the  superintendence  of  the  former  bishop.  However, 
all  that  has  come  to  an  end.-  Medical  practice  drove  away 
natural  history  ; the  herbarium  is  eaten  by  worms  ; the  bishop 
is  dead  ; and  the  botanic  garden  is  again  rationally  planted 
with  cabbages  and  garlic. 

Dr.  Tura  is  a very  refined  and  good  man.  He  told  me  his  i 
history  with  frankness,  purity  of  mind,  and  modesty,  and 
altogether  spoke  in  a very  definite  and  affable  manner.  At  1 
the  same  time  he  did  not  like  to  open  his  cabinets,  which, 
perhaps,  were  in  no  very  presentable  condition.  Our  conver- 
sation soon  came  to  a stand-still. 

Sept.  21.  Evening.  | 

I called  upon  the  old  architect  Scamozzi,  who  has  pub-  I 

lished  an  edition  of  “ Palladio’s  Buildings,”  and  is  a diligent  ' 

artist,  passionately  devoted  to  his  art.  He  gave  me  some 
directions,  being  delighted  with  my  sympathy.  Among  Pal-’ 
ladio’s  buildings,  there  is  one  for  which  I always  had  an  > 
especial  predilection,  and  which  is  said  to  have  been  his  own  ■» 
residence.  When  it  is  seen  close,  there  is  far  more  in  it  than 
appears  in  a picture.  I should  have  liked  to  draw  it.  and 
to  illuminate  it  with  colors,  to  show  the  material  and  the  age. 

It  must  not,  however,  be  imagined  that  the  architect  has  built 
himself  a palace.  The  house  is  the  most  modest  in  the  world, 
with  only  two  windows,  separated  from  each  other  by  a broad 
space  which  would  admit  a third.  If  it  were  imitated  in  a 
picture  which  should  exhibit  the  neighboring  houses  at  the 
same  time,  the  spectator  would  be  pleased  to  observe  how  it 
has  been  let  in  between  them.  Canaletto  was  the  man  who 
should  have  painted  it. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


113 


Sept.  22. 

To-day  I visited  the  splendid  building  which  stands  on  a 
pleasant  elevation  about  half  a league  from  the  town,  and  is 
called  the  “ Rotonda.”  It  is  a quadrangular  building,  en- 
' closing  a circular  hall,  lighted  from  the  top.  On  all  the  four 
sides  you  ascend  a broad  flight  of  steps,  and  always  come  to 
a vestibule,  which  is  formed  of  six  Corinthian  columns.  Pro- 
bably the  luxury  of  architecture  was  never  carried  to  so  high 
a point.  The  space  occupied  by  the  steps  and  vestibules  is 
much  larger  than  that  occupied  by  the  house  itself,  for  every 
one  of  the  sides  is  as  grand  and  pleasing  as  the  front  of  a 
temple.  With  respect  to  the  inside,  it  may  be  called  habit- 
able, but  not  comfortable.  The  hall  is  of  the  finest  propor- 

Itions,  and  so  are  the  chambers  ; but  they  would  hardly  suffice 
for  the  actual  wants  of  any  genteel  family  in  a summer  resi- 
dence. On  the  other  hand,  it  presents  a most  beautiful  ap- 
pearance as  it  is  viewed  on  every  side  throughout  the  district. 
The  variety  which  is  produced  by  the  principal  mass,  as, 
together  with  the  projecting  columns,  it  is  gradually  brought 
before  the  eyes  of  the  spectator  w'ho  walks  round  it,  is  very 
great ; and  the  purpose  of  the  owner,  who  wished  to  leave  a 
i large  trust-estate  and  at  the  same  time  a visible  monument 
of  his  wealth,  is  completely  obtained.  And,  while  the  build- 
ing appears  in  all  its  magnificence  when  viewed  from  any 
I spot  in  the  district,  it  also  forms  the  point  of  view  for  a most 
agreeable  prospect.  Y'ou  may  see  the  Bachiglioue  flowing 
along,  and  taking  vessels  down  from  Verona  to  the  Brenta, 

; while  you  overlook  the  extensive  possessions  which  the  Mar- 
quis Capra  wished  to  preserve  undivided  in  his  family.  The 
' inscriptions  on  the  four  gable-ends,  wdiich  together  constitute 
one  whole,  are  worthy  to  be  noted  down  : — 

Marcus  Capra  Gabrielis  filius 
Qui  ascles  lias 

I Arctissiino  primogcniturse  gradui  subjecit 

I Una  cum  omnibus 

I Censibus  agris  vallibus  et  collibus 

Citra  viam  magnam 
Memorite  perpetuse  mandans  hsec 
Dum  sustinet  ac  abstiiiet. 

The  conclusion,  in  particular,  is  strange  enough.  A man 
who  has  at  cominancl  so  much  wealth  and  such  a capacious 
will  still  feels  that  he  must  bear  and  forbear.  This  can  be 
I learned  at  a less  expense. 


114 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


J 


Seit.  22. 

This  evening  I wns  at  a meeting  held  by  the  academy  of 
the  “ Olympians.”  It  is  mere  play- work,  but  good  in  its 
way,  and  seems  to  keep  up  a little  spice  and  life  among  the  | 
people.  There  is  the  great  hall  by  Palladio’s  Theatre,  hand-  | 
somely  lighted  up.  The  Capitan  and  a portion  of  the  nobility  I 
are  present,  besides  a public  composed  of  educated  persons, 
and  several  of  the  clergy  ; the  whole  assembly  amounting  to 
about  five  hundred. 

The  question  proposed  by  the  president  for  to-day’s  sitting 
was  this,  “ Which  has  been  most  serviceable  to  the  fine  arts, — 
invention,  or  imitation  ? ” This  was  a happy  notion  ; for,  if  the 
alternatives  which  are  involved  in  the  question  are  kept  duly 
apart,  one  maj'  go  on  debating  for  centuries.  The  academicians 
have  gallantly  availed  themselves  of  the  occasion,  and  have 
produced  all  sorts  of  things  in  prose  and  verse,  some  very  good. 

Then  there  is  the  liveliest  public.  The  audience  cry  Bravo, 
and  clap  their  hands,  and  laugh.  What  a thing  it  is  to  stand 
thus  before  one’s  nation,  and  amuse  them  in  person  ! We 
must  set  down  our  best  productions  in  black  and  white,  i 
Every  one  squats  down  with  them  in  a corner,  and  scribbles 
at  them  as  he  can. 

It  may  be  imagined,  that,  even  on  this  occasion,  Palladio 
would  be  continually  appealed  to,  whether  the  discourse  was 
in  favor  of  invention  or  imitation.  At  the  end,  which  is 
always  the  right  place  for  a joke,  one  of  the  speakers  hit  on 
a happy  thought,  and  said  that  the  others  had  already  taken 
Palladio  av,’ay  from  him  ; so  that  he,  for  his  part,  would  praise 
Franceschini,  the  great  silk-manufacturer.  He  then  began 
to  show  the  advantages  which  this  enterprising  man.  and, 
through  him,  the  city  of  Vicenza,  had  derived  from  imitating 
the  Lyonuese  and  Florentine  stuffs,  and  thence  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  imitation  stands  far  above  invention.  This 
was  done  with  so  much  humor,  that  uninterrupted  laughter 
was  excited.  Generally  those  who  spoke  in  favor  of  imita- 
tion obtained  the  most  applause ; for  they  said  nothing  but 
what  was  adapted  to  the  thoughts  and  capacities  of  the  mul- 
titude. Once  the  public,  by  a violent  clapping  of  hands, 
gave  its  hearty  approval  to  a most  clumsy  sophism,  when  it 
had  not  felt  many  good,  nay,  excellent  things  that  had 
been  said  in  honor  of  invention.  I am  very  glad  I have  wit- 
nessed this  scene  ; for  it  is  highly  gratifying  to  see  Palladio, 
after  the  lapse  or  so  long  a time,  still  honored  by  his  fellow- 
citizens  as  their  polar  star  and  model. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


115 


[ ' Sept.  22. 

i This  morning  I was  at  Tiene,  which  lies  north,  towards  the 
^ mountains,  where  a new  building  has  been  erected  after  an 
» old  plan,  of  which  there  may  be  a little  to  say.  Thus  do 
i they  here  honor  every  thing  that  belongs  to  the  good  period, 

Iand  have  sense'  enough  to  raise  a new  building  on  a plan 
which  they  have  inherited.  The  chdteau  is  excellently  sit- 
j;  uated  in  a large  plain,  having  behind  it  the  calcareous  Alps, 
without  any  mountains  inteiwening.  A stream  of  living 
f water  flows  along  the  level  causeway  from  each  side  of  the 
I building,  toward^s  those  who  approach  it,  and  waters  the 
broad  flelds  of  rice  through  which  one  passes. 

I have  now  seen  but  two  Italian  cities,  and  for  the  first 

I'  time,  and  have  spoken  with  but  few  persons  ; and  yet  I know 
my  Italians  pretty  well.  They  are  like  courtiers,  who  con- 
sider themselves  the  first  people  in  the  world,  and  who,  on 
the  sti’ength  of  certain  advantages,  which  cannot  be  denied 
! them,  can  indulge  with  impunity  in  so  comfortable  a thought. 

! The  Italians  appear  to  me  a right  good  people.  Only  one 
i must  see  the  children  and  the  common  people  as  I see  them 
t now,  and  can  see  them,  w'hile  I am  always  open  to  them, 
" nay,  always  lay  myself  open  to  them.  What  figures  and 
, faces  there  are  ! 

I It  is  especially  to  be  commended  in  the  Vicentians,  that 
! with  them  one  enjoys  the  privileges  of  a large  city.  What- 
j ever  a person  does,  they  do  not  stare  at  him  ; but,  if  he  ad- 
I dresses  them,  they  are  conversable  and  pleasant,  especially 
!!  the  women,  who  please  me  much.  I do  not  mean  to  find 

I fault  with  the  Veronese  women:  they  are  well  made,  and 
have  decided  profiles  ; but  they  are,  for  the  most  part,  pale, 
and  the  Zendal  is  to  their  disadvantage,  because  one  looks 
I for  something  charming  under  the  beautiful  costume.  I have 
j found  here  some  very  pretty  creatures,  especially  some  with 
j|  black  locks,  who  inspire  me  with  peculiar  interest.  There  are 
I also  fairer  beauties,  who,  however,  do  not  please  me  so  well. 

t 

I 

Padua,  Sept.  26. 
Evening. 

In  four  hours  I have  this  day  come  here  from  Vicenza, 
crammed,  luggage  and  all,  into  a little  one-seated  chaise 
called  a Sediola.  Generally  the  journey  is  performed  with 
ease  in  three  hours  and  a h.alf  ; but,  as  I wished  to  pass 
the  delightful  daytime  in  the  open  air,  I was  glad  that  the 
Vetturino  fell  short  of  his  duty.  The  route  goes  constantly 


116 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


southwards,  over  the  most  fertile  plains,  and  between  hedges 
and  trees,  without  further  prospect,  until  at  last  the  beautiful 
mountains,  extending  from  the  east  towards  the  south,  are 
seen  on  the  right  hand.  The  abundance  of  the  festoons  of 
plants  and  fruit,  whicli  hang  over  walls  and  hedges,  and 
down  the  trees,  is  indescribable.  The  roofs  are  loaded  with 
gourds,  and  the  strangest  sort  of  cucumbers  are  hanging 
from  poles  and  trellises. 

From  the  observatory  I could  take  the  clearest  survey  pos- 
sible of  the  fine  situation  of  the  town.  Towards  the  north 
are  the  Tyrolese  mountains,  covered  with  snow,  and  half 
hidden  by  clouds,  and  joined  by  the  Vicentian  mountains  on 
the  north-west.  Then  towards  the  west  are  the  nearer  moun- 
tains of  Este,  the  shapes  and  recesses  of  which  are  plainly  to 
be  seen.  Towards  the  south-east  is  a verdant  sea  of  plants, 
without  a trace  of  elevation,  tree  after  tree,  bush  after  bush, 
plantation  after  plantation,  while  houses,  villas,  and  churches, 
dazzling  with  whiteness,  peer  out  from  among  the  green. 
Against  the  horizon  I plainly  saw  the  tower  of  8t.  Mark’s  at 
Venice,  with  other  smaller  towers. 

Padua,  Sept.  IT. 

I have  at  last  obtained  the  works  of  Palladio,  not  indeed 
the  original  edition,  which  I saw  at  Vicenza,  where  the  cuts 
are  in  wood,  but  a facsimile  in  copper,  published  at  the  ex- 
pense of  an  excellent  man,  named  Smith,  who  was  formerly 
the  English  consul  at  Venice.  We  must  give  the  English 
this  credit,  that  they  have  long  known  how  to  prize  Avhat  is 
good,  and  have  a magnificent  way  of  diffusing  it. 

On  the  occasion  of  this  purchase  I entered  a book-shop, 
■which  in  Italy  presents  quite  a peculiar  appearance.  Around 
it  are  arranged  the  books,  all  stitched  ; and  during  the  whole 
day  good  society  may  be  found  in  the  shop,  which  is  a lounge 
for  all  the  secular  clergy,  nobility,  and  artists  who  are  in  ai\y 
way  connected  with  literature.  One  asks  for  a book,  opens 
it,  and  amuses  himself  as  one  can.  Thus  I found  a knot  of 
half  a dozen,  all  of  whom  became  attentiAm  to  me  when  1 
asked  for  the  works  of  Palladio.  "While  the  master  of  the 
shop  looked  for  the  book,  they  commended  it.  and  gave  me 
information  respecting  tire  original  and  the  copy  : they  were 
well  acquainted  Avith  the  work  itself  and  with  the  merits  of 
the  author.  Taking  me  for  an  architect,  they  praised  me  for 
having  recourse  to  this  master  in  preference  to  all  the  rest : 
saying  that  he  was  of  more  practical  utility  than  Vitruvius 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


117 


himself,  since  he  had  thoroughly  studied  the  ancients  and 
antiquity,  and  had  sought  to  adapt  the  latter  to  the  wants  of 
our  own  times.  I conversed  for  a long  time  with  these 
friendly  men,  learned  something  about  the  remarkable  objects 
in  the  city,  and  took  my  leave. 

Where  men  have  built  churches  to  saints,  a place  may 
sometimes  be  found  in  them  where  monuments  to  intellectual 
men  may  be  set  up.  The  bust  of  Cardinal  Bembo  stands 
between  Ionic  columns.  It  is  a handsome  face,  strongly 
drawn  in,  if  I may  use  the  expression,  and  with  a copious 
beard.  The  inscription  runs  thus : “ Petri  Bemlji  Card, 
imaginem  Hier.  Guerinus  Ismeni  f.  in  publico  ponendam 
curavit  ut  cujus  ingenii  monumenta  aeterna  sint,njus  corporis 
quoque  memoria  ne  a posteritate  desiderctur.” 

With  all  its  dignity,  the  University  gave  me  the  horrors  as 
a building.  I am  glad  that  I had  nothing  to  learn  in  it. 
One  cannot  imagine  such  a narrow  compass  for  a school, 
even  though,  as  the  student  of  a German  university,  one 
may  have  suffered  a great  deal  on  the  benches  of  the  audito- 
rium. The  anatomical  theatre  is  a perfect  model  of  the  art 
of  pressing  students  together.  The  audience  are  piled  one 
al)Ove  another  in  a tall,  pointed  funnel.  They  look  down 
upon  the  narrow  space  where  the  table  stands ; and,  as  no 
daylight  falls  upon  it,  the  professor  must  demonstrate  by 
lamplight.  The  botanic  garden  is  much  more  pretty  and 
cheerful.  Several  plants  can  remain  in  the  ground  during 
the  winter,  if  they  are  set  near  the  walls,  or  at  no  great  dis- 
tance from  them.  At  the  end  of  October  the  whole  is  built 
over,  and  the  process  of  heating  is  carried  on  for  the  few 
remaining  months.  It  is  pleasant  and  instructive  to  walk 
through  a vegetation  that  is  strange  to  us.  With  ordinary 
plants,  as  well  as  with  other  objects  that  have  been  long- 
familiar  to  us,  we  at  last  do  not  think  at  all ; and  what  is 
looking  without  thinking?  Amidst  this  variety  which  comes 
upon  me  quite  new,  the  idea  that  all  forms  of  plants  may, 
perhaps,  be  developed  from  a single  form,  becomes  more 
lively  than  ever.  On  this  principle  alone  it  would  be  possi- 
ble to  define  orders  and  classes,  which,  it  seems  to  me,  has 
hitherto  been  done  in  a very  arbitrary  manner.  At  this 
point  I stand  fast  in  my  botanical  philosophy,  and  I do  not 
see  how  I am  to  extricate  myself.  The  depth  and  breadth 
of  this  business  seem  to  me  quite  equal. 

The  great  square,  called  Prato  della  Valle,  is  a very  wide 
space,  where  the  chief  fair  is  held  in  June.  The  wooden 


118 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


booths  in  the  middle  of  it  do  not  produce  the  most  favorable 
appearance  ; but  the  inhabitants  assure  me  that  there  will  soon 
be  Sifi'era  of  stone  here,  like  that  at  Verona.  One  has  hopes 
of  this  already,  from  the  manner  in  which  the  Prato  is  sur- 
rounded, and  which  affords  a veiy  beautiful  and  imposing 
view. 

A huge  oval  is  surrounded  with  statues,  all  representing 
celebrated  men  who  have  taught  or  studied  at  the  Univer- 
sity. Any  native  or  foreigner  is  allowed  to  erect  a statue 
of  a certain  size  to  any  countiyman  or  kinsman,  as  soon  as 
the  merit  of  the  person  and  his  academical  residence  at  Padua 
are  proved. 

A moat  filled  with  water  goes  round  the  oval.  On  the 
four  bridges  which  lead  up  to  it  stand  colossal  figures  of 
popes  and  doges.  The  other  statues,  -vVhich  are  smaller,  have 
been  set  up  by  corporations,  private  individuals,  or  foreign- 
ers. The  king  of  Sweden  caused  a figure  of  Gustavus 
Adolphus  to  be  erected,  because,  it  is  said,  he  once  heard  a 
lecture  in  Padua.  The  Archduke  Leopold  revived  the  mem- 
ory of  Petrarch  and  Galileo.  The  statues  are  in  a good, 
modern  style,  a few  of  them  rather  affected,  some  very  natu- 
ral, and  all  in  the  costume  of  their  rank  and  dignity.  The 
inscriptions  deserve  commendation.  There  is  nothing  in 
them  absurd  or  paltry. 

At  any  university  this  would  have  been  a happy  thought ; 
and  here  it  is  particularly  so,  because  it  is  very  delightful 
to  see  a whole  line  of  departed  worthies  thus  called  back 
again.  It  will,  perhaps,  form  a very  beautiful  Prato,  when 
the  wooden  Fiera  will  have  been  removed,  and  one  built  of 
stone,  according  to  the  plan  they  arc  said  to  have  made. 

In  the  consistory  of  a fraternity  dedicated  to  St.  Anthony, 
there  are  some  pictures  of  an  early  date,  which  remind  one  of 
the  old  German  paintings,  and  also  some  b}'  Titian,  in  which 
may  be  remarked  the  great  iirogress  which  no  one  has  made 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Alps.  Immediately  afterwards  I 
saw  works  b}'  some  of  the  most  modern  painters.  These 
artists,  as  they  could  not  hope  to  succeed  in  the  loft}'  and 
the  serious,  have  been  veiy  happy  in  hitting  the  humorous. 
The  decollation  of  John  by  Piazetta  is,  in  this  sense,  a capi- 
tal picture,  if  one  can  once  allow  the  master’s  manner.  John 
is  kneeling,  with  his  hands  before  him,  and  his  right  knee  on 
a stone,  looking  towards  heaven.  One  of  the  soldiers  who 
is  binding  him  is  bendiag  round  on  one  side,  and  looking 
into  his  face,  as  if  he  were  wondering  at  his  patient  resigna- 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


119 


tion.  Higher  np  stands  another,  who  is  to  deal  the  fatal 
blow.  He  does  not,  however,  hold  the  sword,  but  makes  a 
motion  with  his  hands,  like  one  who  is  practising  the  stroke 
beforehand.  A third  is  drawing  the  sword  out  of  the  scab- 
bard. The  thought  is  happy,  if  not  grand ; and  the  compo- 
sition is  sfriking,  and  produces  the  best  effect. 

In  the  Church  of ' the  Eremitaui  I have  seen  pictiu’es  by 
Mantegna,  one  of  the  older  painters,  at  which  I am  aston- 
ished. What  a sharp,  strict  actuality  is  exhibited  in  these 
pictures!  It  is  from  this  actuality,  thoroughly  true,  — not 
apparent  merely,  and  falsely  effective,  and  appealing  solely 
to  the  imagination, — but  solid,  pure,  bright,  elaborated,  con- 
scientious, delicate,  and  circumscribed  ; an  actuality  which 
had  about  it  something  severe,  credulous,  and  laboiious,  — 
it  is  from  this,  I say,  that  the  later  painters  proceeded  (as  I 
remarked  in  the  pictures  by  Titian),  in  order  that  by  the  live- 
liness of  their  own  genius,  the  energy  of  their  nature,  illu- 
mined at  the  same  time  by  the  mind  of  the  predecessors,  and 
exalted  by  their  force,  they  might  rise  higher  and  higher, 
and,  elevated  above  the  earth,  produce  forms  that  wei'e  hea- 
venly indeed,  but  still  true.  Thus  was  art  developed  after 
the  barbarous  period. 

The  hall  of  audience  in  the  town-house,  properly  desig- 
nated by  the  augmentative  Salone  is  such  a huge  enclos- 
ure, that  one  cannot  conceive  it,  much  less  recall  it  to  one’s 
immediate  memory.  It  is  three  hundred  feet  long,  one 
hundred  feet  broad,  and  one  hundred  feet  high,  measured  up 
to  the  roof,  which  covers  it  quite  in.  So  accustomed  are 
these  people  to  live  in  the  open  air,  that  the  architects  look 
out  for  a market-place  to  overarch.  And  there  is  no  ques- 
tion that  this  huge  vaulted  space  produces  quite  a peculiar 
effect.  It  is  an  enclosed  infinity,  which  has  more  analogy  to 
man’s  habits  and  feelings  than  the  starry  heavens.  The 
latter  takes  us  out  of  ourselves ; the  former  insensibly 
brings  us  back  to.  ourselves. 

For  the  same  reason,  I also  like  to  stay  in  the  Church  of 
St.  Justina.  This  church,  which  is  eighty-five  feet  long,  and 
high  and  broad  in  proportion,  is  built  in  a grand  and  simple 
style.  This  evening  I seated  myself  in  a corner,  and 
indulged  in  quiet  contemplation.  Then  I felt  truly  alone  ; 
for  no  one  in  the  world,  even  if  he  had  thought  of  me  for 
the  moment,  would  have  looked  for  me  here. 

Now  every  thing  ought  to  be  packed  up  again  ; for  to-mor- 
row morning  I set  oft'  by  water,  upon  the  Breuta.  It  rained 


120 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


to-day  ; but  now  it  lias  cleared,  and  T hope  I shall  be  able 
to  see  the  lagunes  and  the  Bride  of  the  Sea  by  beautiful 
daylight,  and  to  greet  my  friends  from  her  bosom. 


VENICE. 

On  my  page  in  the  Book  of  Fate,  there  was  written  that  on 
the  evening  of  the  28th  of  September,  by  five  o’clock,  German 
time,  1 should  see  Venice  for  the  first  time,  as  I passed  from 
the  Brenta  into  the  lagunes,  and  that  soon  afterwards,  I should 
actually  enter  and  visit  this  strange  island-cit\',  this  heaven- 
like republic.  So  now.  Heaven  be  praised  ! Venice  is  no 
longer  to  me  a bare  and  a hollow  name,  which  has  so  long 
tormented  me,  — ?ne,  the  mental  enemy  of  mere  verbal  sounds. 

As  the  first  of  the  gondoliers  came  up  to  the  ship  (they 
come  in  order  to  convey  more  quickly  to  Venice  those  pas- 
sengers wlio  are  in  a hurry),  I recollected  an  old  plaything, 
of  which,  perhaps,  I had  not  thought  for  twenty  years.  My 
father  had  a beautiful  model  of  a gondola,  which  he  had 
brought  with  him  [/ro?n.  Italy'].  He  set  a great  value  upon 
it,  and  it  was  considered  a great  treat  when  I was  allowed  to 
play  with  it.  The  first  beaks  of  tinned  iron-plate,  the  black 
gondola-gratings,  all  greeted  me  like  old  acquaintances  ; and 
I experienced  again  dear  emotions  of  my  childhood  which 
had  been  long  unknown. 

I am  wmll  lodged  at  the  sign  of  the  Queen  of  England,  not 
far  from  the  Square  of  St.  Mark,  which  is,  indeed,  the  chief 
advantage  of  the  spot.  My  windows  look  upon  a narrow 
canal  between  loft}’  houses : a bridge  of  one  arch  is  immedi- 
ately below  me,  and  directly  opposite  is  a narrow,  bustling 
alley.  Thus  am  I lodged  ; and  here  I shall  remain  until  I 
have  made  up  my  packet  for  Germany,  and  until  I am 
satiated  with  the  sight  of  the  city.  I can  now  really  enjoy 
the  solitude  for  which  I have  longed  so  ardently  ; for  no- 
where does  a man  feel  more  solitary  than  in  a crowd,  where, 
unknown  to  every  one,  he  must  push  his  way.  Perhaps  in 
Venice  there  is  only  one  person  who  knows  me,  and  he  will 
not  come  in  contact  with  me  all  at  once. 

Venice,  Sept.  28,  ITSG. 

A few  words  on  my  journey  hither  from  Padua.  The  pas- 
sage on  the  Brenta,  in  the  public  vessel,  and  in  good  com- 
pany, is  highly  agreeable.  The  banks  are  ornamented  with 
gardens  and  villas  ; little  hamlets  come  down  to  tlie  water’s 
edge  ; and  the  animated  higli  road  may  be  seen  here  and 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


121 


there.  As  the  descent  of  the  river  is  by  means  of  locks, 
there  is  often  a little  pause,  which  may  be  employed  in  look- 
ing about  the  country,  and  in  tasting  the  fruits,  which  are 
offered  in  great  abundance.  Y"ou  then  enter  your  vessel 
again,  and  move  on  through  a world  which  is  itself  in  mo- 
tion, and  full  of  life  and  fertility. 

To  so  many  changing  forms  and  images  a phenomenon  was 
added,  which,  although  derived  from  Germany,  was  quite 
in  its  place  here,  — I mean  two  pilgrims,  the  first  whom  I 
have  seen  closely.  They  have  a right  to  travel  gratis  in  this 
public  conveyance  ; but,  because  the  rest  of  the  passengers 
dislike  coming  in  contact  with  them,  thej^  do  not  sit  in  the 
covered  part,  but  in  the  after- part,  beside  the  steersman. 
They  were  stared  at  as  a phenomenon,  even  at  the  present 
day ; and  as,  in  former  times,  many  vagabonds  had  made 
use  of  this  cloak,  they  were  but  lightly  esteemed.  When  I 
learned  that  they  were  Germans,  and  could  speak  no  lan- 
guage but  their  own,  I joined  them,  and  found  that  they 
came  from  the  Paderborn  territory.  Both  of  them  were 
men  of  more  than  fifty  years  of  age,  and  of  a dark  but 
good-humored  physiognomy.  They  had  first  visited  the  sep- 
ulchre of  the  Three  Kings  at  Cologne,  had  then  travelled 
through  Germany,  and  were  now  together  on  their  way  back 
to  Rome  and  Upper  Italy,  whence  one  intended  to  set  out 
for  Westphalia,  and  the  other  to  pay  a visit  of  adoration  to 
St.  James  of  Compostella. 

Their  dress  was  the  well-known  costume  of  pilgrims  ; but 
they  looked  much  better  with  this  tucked-up  robe  than  the 
pilgrims  in  long  taffeta  garments  whom  we  are  accustomed 
to  exhibit  at  our  masquerades.  The  long  cape,  the  round 
hat,  the  staff  and  shell  (the  latter  used  as  the  most  innocent 
drinking-vessel)  — all  had  its  signification,  and  its  immediate 
use  ; while  a tin  case  held  their  passports.  Most  remarkable 
of  all  were  their  small  red  morocco  pocket-books,  in  which 
they  kept  all  the  little  implements  that  might  be  wanted  for 
any  simple  necessity.  They  had  taken  them  out  on  finding 
that  something  in  their  garments  wanted  mending. 

The  steersman,  highly  pleased  to  find  an  interpreter,  made 
me  ask  them  several  questions  ; and  thus  I learned  a great 
deal  about  their  views,  and  especially  about  their  expedition. 
They  made  bitter  complaints  against  their  brethren  in  the 
faith,  and  even  against  the  clergy,  both  secular  and  monastic. 
Piety,  they  said,  must  be  a very  scarce  commodity,  since  no 
one  would  believe  in  theirs  ; but  they  were  treated  as  vagrants 


122 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


in  almost  every  Catholic  country,  although  they  produced  the 
route,  which  had  been  clerically  prescribed,  and  the  passports 
given  by  the  bishop.  On  the  other  hand,  they  described, 
with  a great  deal  of  emotion,  how  well  they  had  been  received 
by  Protestants,  and  made  special  mention  of  a eountrv 
clergyman  in  Swabia,  and  still  more  of  his  wife,  who  had 
prevailed  on  her  somewhat  unwilling  husband  to  give  them 
an  abundant  repast,  of  which  they  stood  in  great  need.  On 
taking  leave,  the  good  couple  had  given  them  a “ conven- 
tion’s dollar,”  * which  they  found  very  serviceable  as  soon 
as  the}^  entered  the  Catholic  territory.  Upon  this,  one  of 
them  said,  with  all  the  elevation  of  which  he  was  capable, 
“We  include  this  lady  every  day  in  our  prayers,  and  implore 
God  that  he  will  open  her  eyes,  as  he  has  opened  her  heart 
towards  us,  and  take  her,  although  late,  into  the  bosom  of 
the  Catholic  Church.  And  thus  we  hope  that  we  shall  meet 
her  in  paradise  hereafter.” 

As  I sat  upon  the  little  gangway  which  led  to  the  desk, 
I explained  as  much  as  was  necessary  and  useful  to  the 
steersman,  and  to  some  other  persons  who  had  crowded 
from  the  cabin  into  this  narrow  space.  The  pilgrims  received 
some  paltry  donations,  for  the  Italians- are  not  fond  of  giv- 
ing. Upon  this  they  drew  out  some  little  consecrated  tick- 
ets, on  which  might  be  seen  the  representation  of  the  three 
sainted  kings,  with  some  prayers  addressed  to  them.  The 
worthy  men  entreated  me  to  distribute  these  tickets  among 
the  little  part}’,  and  explain  how  invaluable  they  were.  In 
this  I succeeded  perfectly  ; for,  when  the  two  men  appeared 
to  be  greatly  embarrassed  as  to  how  they  should  find  the 
convent  devoted  to  pilgrims  in  so  large  a place  as  Venice, 
the  steersman  was  touched,  and  promised,  that,  when  they 
lauded,  he  would  give  a boy  a trifle  to  lead  them  to  that  dis- 
tant spot.  He  added,  in  confidence,  that  they  would  not  be 
very  heartily  welcomed.  “ The  institution,”  he  said,  “ was 
founded  to  admit  I don’t  know  how  many  pilgrims  : but  now 
ft  has  become  greatly  contracted,  and  the  revenues  are  other- 
w’ise  employed.” 

During  this  conversation  we  had  gone  down  the  beautiful 
Brenta,  leaving  behind  us  many  a noble  garden  and  many  a 
noble  palace,  and  casting  a rapid  glance  at  the  populous  and 
thriving  hamlets  which  lay  along  the  banks.  Several  gou- 


' A “ convention’s  dollar  ” is  a dollar  coined  in  consequence  of  an  agreement  made 
between  several  of  the  G-erman  states  in  the  year  1750,  when  the  Viennese  standard 
was  adopted.  — Trans. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


123 


dolas  wound  about  the  ship  as  soon  as  we  had  entered  the 
laguues.  A Lombard,  well  acquainted  with  Venice,  asked 
me  to  accompany  him,  that  we  might  enter  all  the  quicker, 
aud  escape  the  nuisauce  of  the  custom-house.  Those  who 
I endeavored  to  hold  us  back,  he  contrived  to  put  off  with  a 
j little  drink-money,  and  so,  in  a cheerful  sunset,  we  floated 
‘ to  the  place  of  our  destination. 

Sept.  29  (Michaelmas  Day). 

Evmning. 

So  much  has  already  been  told  and  printed  about  Venice, 
that  I shall  not  be  circumstantial  in  mj'  description,  but 
shall  only  say  how  it  struck  me.  Now,  in  this  instance 
again,  that  which  makes  the  chief  impression  upon  me  is 
the  people,  — a great  mass,  who  live  an  involuntary  exist- 
ence determined  by  the  changing  circumstances  of  the  mo- 
ment. 

It  was  for  no  idle  fancy  that  this  race  fled  to  these  islands  ; 
it  was  no  mere  whim  which  impelled  those  who  followed  to 
combine  with  them  ; necessity  taught  them  to  look  for  se- 
curity in  a highly  disadvantageous  situation  that  afterwards 
became  most  advantageous,  enduing  them  with  talent  when 
the  whole  northern  world  was  immersed  in  gloom.  Their 
increase  aud  their  wealth  were  a necessary  consequence. 
New  dwellings  arose  close  against  dwellings  ; rocks  took  the 
place  of  sand  and  marsh  ; houses  sought  the  sky,  being  forced, 
like  trees  enclosed  in  a narrow  compass,  to  seek  in  height 
what  they  were  denied  in  breadth.  Beiug  niggards  of  every 
inch  of  ground,  as  having  been  from  the  very  first  com- 
pressed into  a narrow  compass,  they  allowed  no  more  room 
for  the  streets  than  was  just  necessary  to  separate  a row  of 
houses  from  the  one  opposite,  aud  to  afford  the  citizens  a 
narrow  passage.  Moreover,  water  supplied  the  place  of 
street,  square,  and  promenade.  The  Venetian  was  forced 
to  become  a new  creature  ; aud  thus  Venice  can  only  be  com- 
pared with  itself.  The  large  canal,  winding  like  a serpent, 
yields  to  no  street  in  the  world  ; and  nothing  can  be  put  by 
the  side  of  the  space  in  front  of  St.  Mark’s  Square  — I mean 
that  great  mirror  of  water,  which  is  encompassed  by  Venice 
proper,  in  the  form  of  a crescent.  Across  the  wateiy  sur- 
face you  see  to  the  left  the  island  of  St.  Georgio  Maggiore  ; 
to  the  right,  a little  farther  off,  the  Guidecca  and  its  canal, 
and,  still  more  distant,  the  Dogana  (custom-house)  and  the 
1 entrance  into  the  Canal  Grande,  where  right  before  us  two 


124 


LETTERS  FROM  JTALY. 


immense  marble  temples  ai’e  glittering  in  the  sunshine.  All 
the  views  and  prospects  have  been  so  often  engraved,  that 
mj^  friends  will  have  no  difficulty  in  fonuiug  a clear  idea  of 
them. 

After  dinner  I hastened  to  fix  my  first  impression  of  the 
whole,  and  without  a guide,  and  merely  obser\dng  the  car- 
dinal points,  threw  myself  into  the  labyrinth  of  the  city, 
which,  though  everywhere  intersected  by  larger  or  smaller 
canals,  is  again  connected  by  bridges.  The  narrow  and 
crowded  appearance  of  the  whole  cannot  be  conceived  by 
one  who  has  not  seen  it.  In  most  cases  one  can  quite  or 
nearly  measure  the  breadth  of  the  street  by  stretching  out 
one’s  arms  ; and,  iu  the  narrowest,  a person  would  scrape  his 
elbows  if  lie  walked  with  his  arms  akimbo.  Some  s'treets, 
indeed,  are  wider,  and  here  and  there  is  a little  square ; but 
comparatively  all  may  be  called  narrow. 

1 easily  found  the  Grand  Canal  and  the  principal  bridge, 
the  Rialto,  which  consists  of  a single  arch  of  white  marble. 
Looking  down  from  this,  one  has  a line  prospect,  — the  canal 
full  of  ships,  which  bring  every  necessary  from  the  Conti- 
nent, and  put  in  chiefly  at  this  place  to  unload ; while  be- 
tween them  is  a swarm  of  gondolas.  To-day  especially, 
being  Michaelmas,  the  view  was  wonderfully  animated.  But, 
to  give  some  notiiui  of  it,  I must  go  back  a little. 

The  two  principal  parts  of  Venice,  which  are  divided  by 
the  Grand  Canal,  are  connected  by  no  other  bridge  than  the 
Rialto  ; but  several  means  of  communication  are  provided, 
and  the  river  is  crossed  iu  open  boats  at  certain  fixed  points. 
To-day  a very  pretty  effect  was  produced  by  the  number  of 
well-dressed  ladies,  who,  their  features  concealed  beneath 
large  black  veils,  were  being  ferried  over  in  large  parties  at 
a time,  in  order  to  go  to  the  Church  of  the  Archangel,  whose 
festival  was  being  solemnized.  I left  the  bridge,  and  went 
to  one  of  the  points  of  landing,  to  see  the  parties  as  they 
left  the  boats.  I discovered  some  veiy  fine  forms  and  faces 
among  them. 

After  I liad  become  tired  of  this  amusement,  I seated  my- 
self in  a gondola,  and  quitting  the  narrow  streets,  with  the 
intention  of  witnessing  a spectacle  of  an  opposite  description, 
went  along  the  northern  part  of  the  Grand  Canal,  into  the 
lagunes,  and  then  entered  the  Canal  della  Guidecca.  going  as 
far  as  the  Square  of  St.  Mark.  Now  was  I also  one  of  the 
birds  of  the  Adriatic  Sea,  as  eveiy  Venetian  feels  himself  to 
be  w'hilst  reclining  iu  his  gondola.  I then  thought  with  due 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


125 


honor  of  my  good  father,  who  knew  of  nothing  better  than 
to  talk  about  the  things  I now  witnessed.  And  will  it  not  be 
so  with  me  likewise?  All  that  surrounds  me  is  dignified,  — 
a grand,  venerable  work  of  combined  human  energies,  a 
noble  monument,  not  of  a ruler,  but  of  a people.  Aud  if 
their  lagunes  are  gradually  filling  up,  if  unwholesome  vapors 
are  floating  over  the  marsh,  if  their  trade  is  declining,  and 
their  power  has  sunk,  still  the  great  place  and  the  essential 
character  will  not,  for  a moment,  be  less  venerable  to  the 
observer.  Venice  succumbs  to  time,  like  every  thing  that 
has  a phenomenal  existence. 

Sept.  30. 

Towards  evening  I again  rambled,  without  a guide,  into 
the  remotest  quarters  of  the  city.  The  bridges  here  are  all 
provided  with  stairs,  that  gondolas,  aud  even  larger  vessels, 
may  pass  conveniently  under  the  arches.  I sought  to  find 
my  way  in  and  out  of  this  labyrinth,  without  asking  any- 
body, and,  on  this  occasion  also,  only  guiding  m^’self  by  the 
points  of  the  compass.  One  disentangles  one’s  self  at  last ; 
but  it  is  a wonderful  complication,  and  my  manner  of  obtain- 
ing a sensible  impression  of  it  is  the  best.  I have  now  been 
to  the  remotest  points  of  the  city,  and  observed  the  conduct, 
mode  of  life,  manners,  and  character  of  the  inhabitants  ; 
and  in  every  quarter  they  are  different.  Gracious  Heaven  ! 
what  a poor,  good  sort  of  animal  man  is,  after  all ! 

Most  of  the  smaller  houses  stand  immediately  on  the  canals  ; 
but  there  are  here  aud  there  quays  of  stone,  beautifully 
paved,  along  which  one  may  take  a pleasant  walk  between 
the  water,  and  the  churches  and  palaces.  Particularly 
cheerful  and  agreeable  is  the  long  stone  quay  on  the  noi  th- 
ern  side,  from  which  the  islands  are  visible,  especially  Murano, 
which  is  a Venice  on  a small  scale.  _ The  intervening  lagunes 
are  all  alive  with  little  gondolas. 

Sept'.  30.  Evening. 

To-da}^  I have  enlarged  my  notions  of  Venice  by  procuring 
a plan  of  it.  AVheu  I had  studied  it  for  some  time,  I ascended 
the  Tower  of  St.  Mark,  where  a unique  spectacle  is  presented 
to  the  eye.  It  was  noon  ; aud  the  sun  was  so  bright,  that  I 
could  see  places  near  aud  distant  without  a glass.  The  tide 
covered  the  lagunes  ; and,  w’hen  I turned  my  eyes  towards 
what  is  called  the  “Lido”  (this  is  a narrow  strip  of  earth 
which  bounds  the  lagunes) , I saw  the  sea  for  the  first  time 


126 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


with  some  sails  upon  it.  In  the  lagunes  themselves  some  t 
galleys  and  frigates  are  lying,  destined  to  join  the  Chevalier  h 
Enio,  who  is  making  war  on  the  Algerines,  but  detained  by  * 
unfavorable  winds.  The  mountains  of  Padua  and  Vicenza,  . 
and  the  mountain-chain  of  Tyrol,  beautifully  bound  the  | 
picture  between  the  north  and  west.  | 

Oct.  1. 

I went  out  and  suiweyed  the  city  from  manj’  points  of  view ; 
and,  as  it  was  Sunday,  I was  struck  by  the  great  want  of 
cleanliness  in  the  streets,  which  forced  me  to  make  some 
reflections.  There  seems  to  be  a sort  of  policy  in  this  matter ; 
for  the  people  scrape  the  sweepings  into  the  corners,  and 
I see  large  ships  going  backward  and  forward,  which,  at 
several  points,  lie  to,  and  take  off  the  accumulation.  They 
belong  to  the  people  of  the  surrounding  islands,  who  are  in 
want  of  manure.  But  there  is  neither  consistency  nor  strict- 
ness in  this  method.  And  the  want  of  cleanliness  in  the  city 
is  the  more  unpardonable,  as  in  it  as  much  provision  has 
l)cen  made  for  cleaning  it  as  in  any  Dutch  town. 

All  the  streets  are  paved,  even  those  in  the  remotest  ' 
quarters,  with  bricks  at  least,  which  are  laid  down  lengthwise, 
with  the  edges  slightly  canted.  The  middle  of  the  street, 
where  necessary,  is  raised  a little  ; while  channels  are  fonued 
on  each  side  to  receive  the  water,  and  convey  it  into  covered 
drains.  There  are  other  architectural  arrangements  in  the 
original  well-considered  plan,  which  prove  the  intention  of 
the  excellent  architects  to  make  Venice  the  most  cleanly,  as 
well  as  the  most  singular,  of  cities.  As  I walked  along,  I 
could  not  refrain  from  sketching  a body  of  regulations,  an- 
ticipating in  thought  some  superintendent  of  police,  who 
might  be  in  earnest.  Thus  one  always  has  an  impulse  and  a 
desire  to  sweep  his  neighbor’s  door. 


Oct.  2, 1786. 

Before  all  things,  I hastened  to  the  Carita.  I had  found 
in  Palladio’s  works  that  he  had  planned  a monastic  build- 
ing here,  in  which  he  intended  to  represent  a private  resi- 
dence of  the  rich  and  hosjutable  ancients.  The  plan,  which 
was  excellently  drawn  both  as  a whole  and  in  detail,  gave 
me  infinite  delight ; and  I hoped  to  find  a marvel.  Alas  I 
scarcely  a tenth  part  of  the  edifice  is  finished.  However, 
even  this  part  is  worthy  of  that  heavenly  genius.  There  is 
a completeness  in  the  plan,  and  an  accuracy  in  the  execu- 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


127 


tion,  which  I bad  never  before  witnessed.  One  ought  to  pass 
whole  years  in  the  contemplation  of  such  a work.  It  seems 
.to  me  that  I have  seen  nothing  grander,  nothing  more  perfect, 
and  I fancy  that  I am  not  mistaken.  Onlj"  imagine  the 
.admirable  artist,  born  with  an  inner  feeling  for  the  gi’aud 
and  the  pleasing,  now,  for  the  first  time,  forming  himself  by 
the  ancients,  with  incredible  labor,  that  he  may  be  the  means 
of  reviving  them.  He  finds  an  opportunity  to  carry  out  a 
favorite  thought  in  building  a convent,  which  is  destined  as 
.a  dwelling  for  so  many  monks,  and  a shelter  for  so  many 
strangers,  in  the  form  of  an  antique  private  residence. 

The  church  was  already  standing,  and  led  to  an  atrium  of 
Corinthian  columns.  Here  one  feels  delighted,  and  forgets 
all  priestcraft.  At  one  end  the  sacristy,  at  another  a chap- 
ter-room is  found  ; while  there  is  the  finest  winding  staircase 
in  the  world,  with  a wide  well,  and  the  stone  steps  built  into 
the  wall,  and  so  laid  that  one  supports  another.  . One  is  never 
tired  of  going  up  and  down  this  staircase;  and  we  may 
judge  of  its  success  from  the  fact  that  Palladio  himself 
declares  that  he  has  succeeded.  The  fore-court  leads  to  the 
large  inner  court.  Unfortunatelj’,  nothing  is  finished  of  the 
building  which  was  to  surround  this,  except  the  left  side. 
Here  there  are  three  rows  of  columns,  one  over  the  other. 
On  the  ground-floor  are  the  halls  ; on  the  first  story  is  an  arch- 
way in  front  of  the  cells  ; and  the  upper  story  consists  of  a 
■ plain  wall  with  windows.  However,  this  description  should 
be  illustrated  by  a reference  to  the  sketches.  I will  just  add 
a word  about  the  execution. 

Only  the  capitals  and  bases  of  the  columns,  and  the  key- 
stones of  the  arches,  are  of  hewn  stone  ; all  the  rest  is  — I 
will  not  say  of  brick,  but  — of  burned  clay.  This  descrip- 
tion of  tile  I never  saw  before.  The  frieze  and  cornice  are 
of  the  same  material,  as  well  as  the  parts  of  the  arch.  All 
is  but  half  burnt ; and  lastly  the  building  is  put  together  with 
a very  little  lime.  As  it  stands,  it  looks  as  if  it  had  been  pro- 
duced at  one  cast.  If  the  whole  had  been  finished,  and  proper- 
ly rubbed  up  and  colored,  it  would  have  been  a charming  sight. 

However,  as  so  often  happens  with  buildings  of  a modern 
time,  the  plan  was  too  large.  The  artist  had  presupposed, 
not  only  that  the  existing  convent  would  be  pulled  down,  but 
also  that  the  adjoining  houses  would  be  bought ; and  here 
money  and  inclination  probably  began  to  fail.  Kind  Destiny, 
thou  who  hast  formed  and  perpetuated  so  much  stupidity, 
why  didst  thou  not  allow  this  work  to  be  completed  ! 


128 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


Oct.  3. 

The  Church  II  Reclentore  is  a large  and  beautiful  work 
by  Palladio,  with  a fa9ade  even  more  worthy  of  praise  than 
tliat  of  St.  Giorgio.  These  works,  w^hich  have  often  been 
engraved,  must  be  placed  before  you  to  elucidate  what  is 
said.  I will  outy  add  a few  words. 

Palladio  was  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  antique  mode  of 
existence,  and  felt  the  narrow,  petty  spu’it  of  his  own  age, 
like  a great  man,  who  will  not  give  way  to  it,  but  strives  to 
mould,  as  far  as  possible,  all  that  it  leaves  him,  iuto  accord- 
ance with  his  own  noble  ideas.  From  a slight  perusal  of  his 
book  I conclude  that  he  was  displeased  with  the  continued 
practice  of  building  Christian  churches  after  the  form  of  the 
ancient  Basilica,  and  therefore  tried  to  make  his  own  sacred 
edifices  approximate  to  the  form  of  the  antique  temple. 
Hence  arose  certain  discrepancies,  which,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
are  happily  avoided  in  II  Redentore,  but  are  rather  obvious 
iu  the  8t.  Giorgio.  Volckmann  saj’s  somethiug  about  it,  but 
does  not  hit  the  nail  on  the  head. 

The  interior  of  II  Redentore  is  lOvewise  admirable. 
Every  thing,  including  even  the  designs  of  the  altars,  is  by 
Palladio.  Unfortunately,  the  niches,  which  should  have  been 
filled  with  statues,  are  glaring  with  wooden  figures,  flat, 
carved,  and  painted. 


Oct.  3. 

In  honor  of  St.  Francis,  St.  Peter’s  capuchins  have  splen- 
didly adorned  a side  altar.  There  w'as  nothing  to  be  seen  of 
stone  but  the  Corinthian  capitals : all  the  rest  seemed  to 
be  covered  with  tasteful  but  splendid  embroidery  iu  the 
arabesque  style ; and  the  effect  was  as  pretty  as  could  be 
desired.  I particularly  admired  the  broad  tendrils  and 
foliage,  embroidered  in  gold.  Going  nearer,  I discovered 
an  ingenious  deception.  All  that  I had  taken  for  gold  was. 
in  fact,  straw  pressed  flat,  and  glued  upon  paper,  according 
to  some  beautiful  outlines  ; while  the  ground  was  painted  with 
lively  colors.  This  is  done  with  such  variety  and  tact,  that 
the  design,  which  was  probably  worked  iu  the  convent  itself 
wuth  a material  that  was  worth  nothing,  must  have  cost  several 
thousand  dollars,  if  the  material  had  been  genuine.  It 
might,  on  occasion,  be  advantageously  imitated. 

On  one  of  the  quays,  and  iu  front  of  the  water.  I have 
often  remarked  a little  fellow  telling  stories,  in  the  Venetian 
dialect,  to  a greater  or  less  concourse  of  auditors.  Uufor- 


•4  *■  . 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


129 


tunately  I cannot  miderstaud  a word  ; but  I observe  that  no 
one  laughs,  tliough  the  audience,  who  are  composed  of  the 
lowest  class,  occasionally  smile.  There  is  nothing  striking 
or  ridiculous  in  the  man’s  appearance,  but,  on  the  contraiy, 
something  very  sedate,  with  such  admirable  variety  and  pre- 
cision in  his  gestures,  that  they  evince  art  and  reflection. 

Oct.  3. 

With  my  plan  in  my  hand,  I endeavored  to  find  my  way 
through  the  strangest  labyrinth  to  the  Church  of  the  Mendi- 
canti.  Here  is  the  conservatorium,  which  stands  in  the  high- 
est repute  at  the  present  day.  The  ladies  performed  an 
oratorio  behind  the  grating.  The  church  was  filled  with 
hearers,  the  music  was  very' beautiful,  and  the  voices  were 
magnificent.  An  alto  sung  the  part  of  King  Saul,  the  chief 
personage  in  the  poem.  Of  such  a voice  I had  no  notion 
whatever.  Some  passages  of  the  music  were  excessively 
beautiful ; and  the  words,  which  were  Latin,  most  laughably 
Italianized  in  some  places,  were  perfectly  adapted  for  singing. 
Music  hei’e  has  a wide  field. 

The  performance  would  have  been  a source  of  great 
enjoyment,  if  the  accursed  Maestro  cli  Capella  had  not 
beaten  time,  with  a roll  of  music,  against  the  grating,  as 
conspicuously  as  if  he  had  to  do  with  schoolboys  whom  he 
was  instructing.  As  the  girls  had  repeated  the  piece  often 
enough,  his  noise  was  quite  unnecessary,  and  destroyed  all 
impression,  as  much  as  he  would,  who,  in  order  to  make  a 
beautiful  statue  intelligible  to  ns,  should  stick  scarlet  patches 
on  the  joints.  The  foreign  sound  destroys  all  harmony. 
Now,  this  man  is  a musician,  and  yet  he  seems  not  to  be 
sensible  of  this  ; or,  more  properly-  speaking,  he  chooses  to 
let  his  presence  be  known  by  an  impropriety,  when  it  would 
have  been  much  better  to  allow  his  value  to  be  perceived  by 
the  perfection  of  the  execution.  I know  that  this  is  the 
fault  of  the  French  ; but  I did  not  give  the  Italians  credit  for 
it,  and  yet  the  public  seems  accustomed  to  it.  This  is  not 
the  first  time  that  that  which  spoils  enjoyment  has  been 
supposed  to  be  indispensable  to  it. 


Oct.  3. 

Y'esterday  evening  I went  to  the  opera  at  the  St.  Moses 
(for  the  theatres  take  their  name  from  the  church  to  which 
they  lie  nearest).  Nothing  very  delightful.  In  the  plan, 
the  music,  and  the  singers,  that  energy  was  wanting  which 


130 


LETTERS  FKO.M  ITALY. 


alone  can  elevate  opera  to  the  highest  point.  One  conlcl  not 
say  of  any  part  that  it  was  bad ; but  the  two  female  actresses 
alone  took  pains,  not  so  much  to  act  well,  but  to  set  them-  i 
selves  off,  and  to  please.  That  is  something,  after  all. 
These  two  actresses  have  beautiful  figures  and  good  voices,  ^ 
and  are  nice,  lively,  compact  little  bodies.  Among  the  men,  j 
on  the  other  hand,  there  is  no  trace  of  national  power,  or 
even  of  pleasure,  in  working  on  the  imaginations  of  their 
audience.  Neither  is  there  among  them  any  voice  of  decided 
brilliancy. 

The  ballet,  which  was  wretchedly  conceived,  was  con- 
demned as  a whole  ; but  some  excellent  dancers  and  dcni- 
sewses,  the  latter  of  whom  considered  it  their  duty  to  make  | 
the  spectators  acquainted  with  all  their  personal  chaims,  i 
were  heartily  applauded. 

I 

Oct.  5. 

To-day,  however,  I saw  another  comedy,  which  gave  me  j 
more  pleasure.  In  the  ducal  palace  I heard  the  public  dis- 
cussion of  a law-case.  It  was  important,  and,  happily  for 
me,  was  brought  forward  in  the  holidays.  One  of  the  advo- 
cates had  all  the  qualifications  for  an  exaggerated  dufo. 
Ilis  figure  was  short  and  fat,  but  supple  ; in  profile  his  fea- 
tures were  monstrously  prominent.  He  had  a stentorian 
voice,  and  a vehemence  as  if  eveiy  thing  that  he  said  came 
in  earnest  from  the  very  bottom  of  his  heart.  I call  this  a 
coined}' ; because,  probably,  every  thing  had  -been  already 
prepared  when  the  public  exhibition  took  place.  The  judges  ' 
knew  what  they  had  to  say,  and  the  parties  what  they  had  to  i 
expect.  However,  this  plan  pleases  me  infinitely  more  than 
our  holibling  law-affairs.  I will  endeavor  to  give  some  i 
notion  of  the  particulars,  and  of  the  neat,  natural,  and  unos-  l 
tentatious  manner  in  whicli  every  thing  takes  place. 

In  a spacious  hall  of  the  palace,  the  judges  were  sitting  on  i 
one  side,  in  a half-circle.  Opposite  to  them,  in  a tribune 
which  could  hold  several  persons,  were  the  advocates  for 
both  parties  ; and  upon  a bench  immediately  in  front  of 
them,  the  plaintiff  and  defendant  in  person.  The  advocate 
for  the  plaintiff  had  descended  from  the  tribune,  since  them 
was  to  be  no  controversy  at  this  day’s  sitting.  All  the  doc- 
uments on  both  sides  were  to  be  read,  although  they  were 
already  printed. 

A lean  clerk,  in  a black  scanty  gown,  and  with  a thick 
bundle  in  his  hand,  prepared  to  perform  tlie  office  of  a 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


131 


ireacler.  The  hall  was  completely  crammed  with  persons 
who  came  to  see  and  to  hear.  The  point  of  law  itself,  and 
the  persons  whom  it  concerned,  must  have  appeared  highly 
limportaut  to  the  Venetians. 

Trust-estates  are  so  decidedly  secured  in  Venice,  that  a 
.property  once  stamped  with  this  character  preserves  it  for- 
tever ; though  it  may  have  been  divested  ages  ago  by  appro- 
priations or  other  circumstances,  and  though  it  may  have 
passed  through  ever  so  mauy  hands.  When  the  matter 
comes  into  dispute,  the  descendants  of  the  first  family 
recover  their  right,  and  the  property  must  be  delivered  up. 

On  this  occasion  the  discussion  was  highly  important ; for 
ithe  action  was  brought  against  the  doge  himself,  or  rather 
iagaiust  his  wife,  who,  veiled  by  her  zeiidal,  or  little  hood,  sat 
;ouly  at  a little  distance  from  the  plaintiff.  She  was  a lady 
of  a certain  age,  of  noble  stature,  and  with  well-formed  fea- 
tures, in  which  there  was  something  of  au  earnest,  not  to 
isay  fretful,  character.  The  Venetians  make  it  a great  boast 
that  the  princess  in  her  own  palace  is  obliged  to  appear 
■before  them  and  the  tribunal. 

When  the  clerk  began  to  read,  I for  the  first  time  clearly 
discerned  the  business  of  a little  man  who  sat  on  a low  stool 
behind  a small  table  opposite  the  judges,  and  near  the  advo- 
iCates.  More  especially  I learned  the  use  of  au  hour-glass, 
which  was  placed  before  him.  As  long  as  the  clerk  reads, 
time  is  not  heeded  ; but  the  advocate  is  only  allowed  a cer- 
'tain  time,  if  he  speaks  in  the  course  of  the  reading.  The 
.clerk  reads,  and  the  hour-glass  lies  in  a horizontal  position, 
with  the  little  man’s  hand  upon  it.  As  soon  as  the  advo- 
'cate  opens  his  mouth,  the  glass  is  raised,  and  sinks  again 
as  soon  as  he  is  silent.  It  is  the  great  duty  of  the  advocate 
to  make  remarks  on  what  is  read,  to  introduce  cursory 
observations,  in  order  to  excite  and  challenge  attention. 
This  puts  the  little  Saturn  in  a state  of  the  greatest  per- 
plexity. He  is  obliged  every  moment  to  change  the  hori- 
zontal and  vertical  position  of  the  glass,  and  finds  himself 
•in  the  situation  of  the  evil  spirits  in  the  puppet-show,  who, 
by  the  quickly  varying  Berliche,  Berloche”  of  the  mis- 
chievous Hausiuurst,^  are  puzzled  whether  they  are  to  come 
or  to  go. 

1 An  allusion  to  the  comic  scene  in  the  puppet-play  of  Faust,  from  which  Goethe 
took  the  subject  of  his  poem.  One  of  the  two  magic  words  (Berlic/ifi,  Bfvloche) 
summons  the  devils, the  othcrdrives  them  away;  and  the  //(nisicia'st  (or“  buffoon 
;in  a mock-incantation  scene,  perplexes  the  fiends  by  uttering  one  word  after  the 
! other  as  rapidly  as  possible.  — Trans. 


132 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


Whoever  has  heard  documents  read  over  in  a law-court 
can  imagine  the  reading  on  this  occasion,  — quick  and 
monotonous,  but  plain  and  articulate  enough.  The  ingenious 
advocate  contrives  to  interrupt  the  tedium  by  jests  ; and  the 
public  shows  its  delight  in  his  jokes  by  immoderate  laughter. 

I must  mention  one,  the  most  striking  of  those  I could 
understand.  The  reader  was  just  reciting  the  document  by 
which  one  who  was  considered  to  have  been  illegally  pos- 
sessed of  it  had  disposed  of  the  property  in  question.  The 
advocate  bade  him  read  more  slowly  ; and  when  he  plainly 
uttered  the  words,  “I  give  and  bequeath,”  the  orator  flew 
violently  at  the  clerk,  and  cried,  “■What  will  you  give, 
what  will  you  bequeath,  you  poor  starved-out  devil  ? Noth- 
ing in  the  world  belongs  to  you.  Ilow'ever,”  he  continued, 
as  he  seemed  to  collect  himself,  “ the  illustrious  owner  was 
in  the  same  predicament.  He  Avished  to  give,  he  wished 
to  bequeath,  that  which  belonged  to  him  no  more  than  to 
you.”  A burst  of  inextinguishable  laughter  followed  this 
sally,  but  the  hour-glass  at  once  resumed  its  horizontal  posi- 
tion. The  reader  went  mumbling  on,  and  made  a saucy  face 
at  the  advocate.  But  all  these  jokes  are  prepared  before- 
hand. 

Oct.  4. 

I was  yesterday  at  the  play  in  the  theatre  of  St.  Luke,  | 
and  was  highly  pleased.  I saw  a piece  acted  extempore  in  • 
masks,  with  a great  deal  of  nature,  energy,  and  vigor.  The  ’ 
actors  are  not,  indeed,  all  equal.  The  pantaloon  is  excellent : 
and  one  of  the  actresses,  who  is  stout  *and  well-built,  speaks 
admirably',  and  deports  herself  cleverly,  though  she  is  no 
extraordinary  actress.  The  subject  of  the  piece  is  extra v.i- 
gant,  and  resembled  that  which  is  treated  by’  us  under  the 
name  of  Der  Verscldag  (“  the  partition  ”).  AVith  inexhausti- 
variety,  it  amused  us  for  more  than  three  hours.  But  even 
here  the  people  is  the  base  upon  which  every  thing  rests.  The 
spectators  are  themselves  actors,  and  the  multitude  is  melted 
into  one  whole  with  the  stage.  All  day  long  the  buyer  and 
the  seller,  the  beggar,  the  sailor,  the  female  gossip,  the  advo- 
cate and  his  opponent,  are  living  and  acting  in  the  square 
and  on  the  bench,  in  the  gondolas  and  in  the  palaces,  and 
make  it  their  business  to  talk  and  to  asseverate,  to  cry  and 
to  offer  for  sale,  to  sing  and  to  play,  to  curse  and  to  brawl. 

In  the  evening  they  go  into  the  theatre,  and  see  and  hear  the 
life  of  the  day  artificially’  put  together,  prettily  set  off.  inter- 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


133 


woven  with  a story,  removed  from  reality  by  the  masks,  and 
brought  near  to  it  by  manners.  In  all  this  they  take  a 
childish  delight,  and  again  shout  and  clap,  and  make  a noise. 
From  day  to  night,  nay,  from  midnight  to  midnight,  it  is 
always  the  same. 

I have  not  often  seen  more  natural  acting  than  that  of 
these  masks.  It  is  such  acting  as  can  only  be  sustained  by 
a remarkably  happj'  talent  and  long  practice. 

While  I am  writing  this,  they  are  making  a tremendous 
noise  on  the  canal  under  my  window,  though  it  is  past  mid- 
night. Whether  for  good  or  for  evil,  they  ai'e  always  doing 
something. 

Oct.  4. 

I have  now  heard  public  oratore  ; viz.,  three  fellows  in  the 
square  and  on  the  stone  bench  (each  teUing  tales  after  his 
fashion) , two  advocates,  two  preachers,  and  the  actors,  among 
whom  I must  especially  commend  the  pantaloon.  All  these 
have  something  in  common,  both  because  they  belong  to  one 
and  the  same  nation,  — which,  as  it  always  lives  in  public, 
always  adopts  an  impassioned  manner  of  speaking,  — and  be- 
cause they  imitate  each  other.  There  is,  besides,  a marked 
language  of  gesticulations,  with  which  they  accompany  the 
expressions  of  their  intentions,  views,  and  feelings. 

This  day  was  the  festival  of  St.  Francis  ; and  I was  in  his 
church,  Alle  Vigne.  The  loud  voice  of  the  capuchin  was 
accompanied  by  the  cries  of  the  salesmen  in  front  of  the 
church,  as  by  an  antiphony.  I stood  at  the  church-door  be- 
tween the  two,  and  the  effect  was  singular  enough. 

Oct.  5. 

This  morning  I was  in  the  arsenal,  which  I found  interest- 
ing enough,  though  I know  nothing  of  maritime  affairs  ; and 
visited  the  lower  school  there.  It  has  an  appearance  like 
that  of  an  old  famil}',  which  still  bustles  about,  although  its 
best  time  of  blossom  and  fruit  has  passed.  By  paying  atten- 
tion to  the  handicraftsmen,  I have  seen  much  that  is  remark- 
able, and  have  been  on  board  an  eighty-four-gun  ship,  the 
hull  of  which  is  just  completed. 

Six  months  ago,  a thing  of  the  sort  was  burned  down  to 
the  water’s  edge,  off  the  Riva  dei  Schiavoni.  The  powder- 
room  was  not  very  full ; and,  when  it  blew  up,  it  did  no  great 
damage.  The  windows  of  the  neighboring  houses  were  de- 
stroyed. 


134 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


I have  seen  worked  the  finest  oak  from  Istria,  and  have  j 
made  my  observations  in  return  upon  this  valuable  tree.  i 
That  knowledge  of  the  natural  things  used  by  man  as  mate- 
rials, and  employed  for  his  wants,  which  I have  acquired 
with  so  much  difficulty,  has  been  incalculably  serviceable  in 
explaining  to  me  the  proceedings  of  artists  and  artisans. 

The  knowledge  of  mountains,  and  of  the  stone  taken  out  of 
them,  has  been  to  me  a great  advance  in  art.  , 

Oct.  5. 

To  give  a notion  of  the  Bucentaur  in  one  word,  I should 
saj"  that  it  is  a state-galley.  The  older  one,  of  which  we 
still  have  drawings,  justified  this  appellation  still  more  than 
the  present  one,  w'hich,  by  its  splendor,  makes  us  forget  its 
original. 

I am  always  returning  to  my  old  opinions.  When  a genu- 
ine subject  is  given  to  an  artist,  his  productions  will  be  some- 
thing genuine  also.  Here  the  artist  was  commissioned  to 
form  a galley  worthy  to  carrj'  the  heads  of  the  republic  on 
the  highest  festivals  in  honor  of  its  ancient  rule  on  the  sea ; 
and  the  problem  has  been  admirably  solved.  The  vessel  is  t 
all  ornament : we  ought  to  say  it  is  overladen  with  orna-  ^ 
ment.  It  is  altogether  one  piece  of  gilt  can  ing,  for  no  other  ' 
use  but  that  of  a pageant  to  exhibit  to  the  people  its  leaders 
in  right  noble  style.  We  know  well  enough  that  a people 
who  likes  to  deck  out  its  boats  is  no  less  pleased  to  see  their 
rulers  bravely  adorned.  This  state-galley  is  a good  index  to 
show  what  the  Venetians  were,  and  what  they  considered 
themselves. 

Oct.  5.  Night. 

I have  come  home  from  a tragedy,  and  am  still  laughing ; 
and  I must  at  once  make  the  jest  secure  upon  paper.  The  i 
piece  was  not  bad.  The  author  had  bronglit  together  aU  the  i 

tragic  matadors,  and  the  actors  played  well.  Most  of  the  i 

situations  were  well  known,  but  some  were  new  and  highly 
felicitous.  There  are  two  fathers  who  hate  each  other ; sous 
and  daughters  of  these  severed  families,  who  respectively  are 
passionatel}'  in  love  with  each  other ; and  one  couple  is  even  i 

privately  married.  Wild  and  cruel  work  goes  on ; and  at  ! 

last  nothing  remains  to  render  the  young  people  happy,  but  I 
to  make  the  two  fathers  kill  each  other,  upon  which  the  cur- 
tain falls  amid  the  liveliest  applause.  Now  the  applause 
becomes  more  vehement,  now  fuora  was  called  out ; and 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


135 


this  listed  until  the  two  principal  couples  vouchsafed  to 
crawl  forward  from  behind  the  curtain,  make  their  bow,  and 
retire  at  the  opposite  side. 

The  public  was  not  yet  satisfied,  but  went  on  clapping,  and 
crying,  “7  morti!”  till  the  two  dead  men  also  came  for- 
ward, and  made  their  bow,  when  some  voices  cried,  “ Bravi  i 
morti!”  The  applause  detained  them  fora  long  time,  till 
at  last  they  were  allowed  to  depart.  The  effect  is  infinitely 
more  droll  to  the  eye-and-ear  witness,  who,  like  me,  has 
ringing  in  his  ears  the  “ bravo!  bravi!”  which  the  Italians 
have  incessantly  in  their  mouths,  and  then  suddenly  hears 
the  dead  also  called  forward  with  this  word  of  honor. 

We  of  the  north  can  say  “ good-night  ” at  any  hour,  when 
we  take  leave  after  dark  ; but  the  Italian  says,  “ Felicissima 
notte”  onl}’  once,  and  that  is  when  the  candles  are  brought 
into  a room.  Day  and  night  are  thus  divided,  and  some- 
thing quite  different  is  meant.  So  impossible  is  it  to  trans- 
late the  idioms  of  any  language.  From  the  highest  to  the 
lowest  word,  all  has  reference  to  the  peculiarities  of  the  na- 
tives, in  character,  opinions,  or  circumstances. 


Oct.  6. 

The  tragedy  yesterday  taught  me  a great  deal.  In  the 
first  place,  I have  heard  how  the  Italians  treat  and  declaim 
their  eleven-syllable  iambics  ; and,  in  the  nest  place,  I have 
understood  the  tact  of  Gozzi  in  combining  masks  with  his 
tragic  personages.  This  is  the  proper  sort  of  play  for  this 
people,  which  likes  to  be  moved  in  a rough  fashion.  It  has 
no  tender,  heartfelt  sympathy  for  the  unfortunate  person- 
age, but  is  only  pleased  when  the  hero  speaks  well.  The 
Italians  attach  a great  deal  of  importance  to  the  speaking  ; 
and  then  they  like  to  laugh,  or  to  hear  something  silly. 

Their  interest  in  the  drama  is  like  that  in  the  real  event. 
When  the  tyrant  gave  his  son  a sword,  and  required  him  to 
kill  his  own  wife,  who  was  standing  opposite,  the  people 
began  loudly  to  express  their  disapprobation  of  this  demand  ; 
and  there  was  a great  risk  that  the  piece  would  have  been 
interrupted.  They  insisted  that  the  old  man  should  take  his 
sword  back,  in  which  case  all  the  subsequent  situations  in  the 
drama  would  have  been  completely  spoiled.  At  last  the  dis- 
tressed son  plucked  up  courage,  advanced  to  the  proscenium, 
and  humbly  entreated  that  the  audience  would  have  patience 
for  a moment,  assuring  them  that  all  would  turn  out  to  their 
entire  satisfaction.  But,  even  judging  from  an  artistical 


136 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


point  of  view,  this  situation  was,  under  the  circumstances, 
sill}-  and  unnatural,  and  I commended  the  people  for  their 
feeling. 

I can  now  better  understand  the  long  speeches  and  the 
frequent  dissertations,  pro  and  con,  in  the  Greek  tragedy. 
The  Athenians  liked  still  more  to  hear  speaking,  and  were  still 
better  judges  of  it,  than  the  Italians.  They  learned  some- 
thing from  the  courts  of  law,  where  they  spent  the  whole  day.  " 

Oct.  6. 

In  those  works  of  Palladio  which  are  completed,  I have 
found  much  to  blame,  together  with  much  that  is  highly  valu- 
able. While  I was  reflecting  how  far  I was  right  or  wrong 
in  setting  my  judgment  in  opposition  to  that  of  so  extraordi- 
nary a man,  I felt  as  if  he  stood  by  and  said,  “ I did  so  and 
so  against  my  will,  but,  nevertheless,  I did  it,  because  in 
this  manner  alone  was  it  possible  for  me,  under  the  given 
circumstances,  to  approximate  to  my  highest  idea.” 

The  more  I consider  the  matter,  the  more  it  seems  to  me 
that  Palladio,  while  contemplating  the  height  and  width  of 
an  already  existing  church,  or  of  an  old  house  to  which  he 
was  to  attach  fa9ades,  onl}^  considered,  “ How  will  you  give 
the  greatest  form  to  these  dimensions?  Some  part  of  the 
detail  must,  from  the  necessity  of  the  case,  be  put  out  of  its 
place,  or  spoiled,  and  something  unseemly  is  sure  to  arise 
here  and  there.  Be  that  as  it  maj-,  the  whole  will  have  a 
grand  style,  and  you  will  be  pleased  with  your  work.” 

And  thus  he  carried  out  the  great  image  which  he  had 
witliin  his  soul,  just  to  the  point  where  it  was  not  quite  suita- 
ble, and  where  he  was  obliged,  in  the  detail,  to  mutilate  or  to 
overcrowd  it. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  wing  of  the  Carita  cannot  be  too 
highly  prized;  for  here  the  artist’s  hands  were  free,  and  he 
.could  follow  the  bent  of  his  own  mind  without  constraint.  If 
the  convent  were  finished,  there  would,  perhaps,  be  no  work 
of  architecture  more  perfect  throughout  the  present  world. 

How  he  thought  and  how  he  worked  become  more  and 
more  clear  to  me,  the  more  I read  his  works,  and  reflect  how 
he  treated  the  ancients  ; for  he  says  few  words,  but  they  are 
all  important.  The  fourth  book,  which  illustrates  the  antique 
temples,  is  a good  introduction  to  a judicious  examination  of 
ancient  remains. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


137 


Oct.  7. 

Y'esterday  evening  I saw  the  Electra  of  Crdbillon,  that  is 
to  say  a translation,  at  the  theatre  St.  Crisostomo.  I can- 
not say  how  absurd  the  piece  appeared  to  me,  and  how  ter- 
ribly it  tired  me  out. 

The  actors  are  generally  good,  and  know  how  to  put  off 
the  public  with  single  passages. 

Orestes  alone  has  three  narratives  poetically  set  off  in 
one  scene.  Electra,  a pretty  little  woman,  of  the  middle  size 
and  stature,  with  almost  French  vivacity,  and  with  a good 
deportment,  delivered  the  verses  beautifully,  only  she  acted 
the  part  madly  from  beginning  to  end,  which,  alas  ! it  re- 
quires. However,  I have  again  learned  something.  The 
Italian  iambic,  which  is  mvariabl}’  of  eleven  sy  llables,  is 
very  inconvenient  for  declamation,  because  the  last  syllable 
is  alwa3's  short,  and  causes  an  involuntary  elevation  of  the 
declaimer’s  voice. 

This  morning  I was  present  at  high  mass,  which  annually, 
on  this  day,  the  doge  must  attend,  in  the  Church  of  St.  Jus- 
tina,  to  commemorate  an  old  victory  over  the  Turks.  Wheu 
the  gilded  barks  which  cany  the  princes  and  a portion  of 
the  nobility  approach  the  little  square ; when  the  boatmen, 
in  their  rare  liveries,  are  pl}ung  their  red-painted  oai's  ; when, 
on  the  shore,  the  clei-g}’  and  the  religious  fraternities  are 
standing,  pushing,  moving  about,  and  waiting  with  their 
lighted  torches,  fixed  upon  poles  and  portable  silver  chan- 
deliers ; then,  when  the  gangways  covered  with  carpet  are 
placed  from  the  vessels  to  the  shore,  and  first  the  full  violet 
dresses  of  the  Savii,  next  the  ample  red  robes  of  the  sena- 
tors, are  unfolded  upon  the  pavement,  and,  lastlj’,  when  the 
old  doge,  adorned  with  his  golden  Phrygian  cap,  in  his  long 
golden  talar  and  his  ermine  cloak,  steps  out  of  the  vessel,  — 
when  all  this,  I saj^,  takes  place  in  a little  squai’e  before  the 
portal  of  a church,  one  feels  as  if  he  were  looking  at  an  old 
worked  tapestry,  exceedingly  well  designed  and  colored.  To 
me,  northern  fugitive  as  I am,  this  ceremonj^  gave  a great 
deal  of  pleasure.  With  us,  who  parade  nothing  but  short 
coats  in  our  processions  of  pomp,  and  who  conceive  nothing 
greater  than  one  performed  with  Shouldered  arms,  such  an 
affair  might  be  out  of  place.  But  these  trains,  these  peaceful 
celebrations,  are  all  in  keeping  here. 

The  doge  is  a well-grown  and  well-shaped  man,  who,  per- 
haps, suffers  from  ill  health,  but  nevertheless,  for  dignity’s 
sake,  bears  himself  upright  under  his  heavy  robe.  In  other 


138 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


respects  he  looks  like  the  grandpapa  of  the  whole  race,  and 
is  kind  and  affable.  His  dress  is  very  becoming.  The  little 
cap  which  he  wears  under  the  large  one  does  not  offend  the 
eye,  resting  as  it  does  upon  the  whitest  and  finest  hair  in  the 
world. 

About  fifty  nobili,  with  long  dark-red  trains,  were  with 
him.  For  the  most  part,  they  were  handsome  men  ; and  there 
was  not  a single  uncouth  figure  among  them.  Several  of 
them  were  tall,  with  large  heads  ; so  that  the  white  curly  wigs 
were  very  becoming  to  them.  Their  features  are  prominent. 
The  flesh  of  their  faces  is  soft  and  white,  without  looking 
flabby  and  disagreeable.  On  the  contrary,  there  is  an  ap- 
pearance of  talent  without  exertion,  repose,  self-confidence, 
easiness  of  existence ; and  a certain  joyousness  pervades  the 
whole. 

AVhen  all  had  taken  their  places  in  the  church,  and  mass 
began,  the  fraternities  entered  by  the  chief  door,  and  went 
out  at  the  side-door  to  the  right,  after  they  had  received  holy 
water  in  couples,  aud  made  theii’  obeisance  to  the  high  altar, 
to  the  doge,  aud  the  nobility. 


Night. 

For  this  evening  I had  bespoke  the  celebrated  song  of  the 
mariners,  who  chant  Tasso  and  Ariosto  to  melodies  of  their 
own.  This  must  be  actually  ordered,  as  it  is  not  to  be  heard 
as  a thing  of  course,  but  rather  belongs  to  the  half-forgotten 
traditions  of  former  times.  I entered  a gondola  by  moon- 
light, with  one  singer  before,  aud  the  other  behind  me.  They 
sing  their  song,  taking  up  the  verses  alternately.  The  mel- 
ody, which  we  know  through  Rousseau,  is  of  a middle  kind, 
between  choral  and  recitative,  maintaining  throughout  the 
same  cadence,  without  auy  fixed  time.  The  modulation  is 
also  uniform,  only  varying  with  a sort  of  declamation,  both 
tone  and  measure,  according  to  the  subject  of  the  verse. 
But  the  spirit,  the  life  of  it,  is  as  follows  : — 

AVithout  inquiring  into  the  construction  of  the  melody, 
suffice  it  to  say,  that  it  is  admirably  suited  to  that  easy  class 
of  people,  who,  alwaj'S  humming  something  or  other  to  them- 
selves, adapt  such  tunes  to  any  little  poem  the}’  know  by 
heart. 

Sitting  on  the  shore  of  an  island,  on  the  bank  of  a canal, 
or  on  the  side  of  a boat,  a gondolier  will  sing  away  with  a 
loud  penetrating  voice,  — the  multitude  admire  force  above 
every  thing,  — anxious  only  to  be  heard  as  far  as  possible. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


139 


Over  the  silent  mirror  it  travels  far.  Another  in  the  dis- 
tance, who  is  acquainted  with  the  melody,  and  knows  the 
words,  takes  it  up,  and  answers  with  the  next  verse,  and 
then  the  first  replies  ; so  that  the  one  is,  as  it  were,  the  echo 
of  the  other.  The  song  continues  through  whole  nights,  and 
is  kept  up  without  fatigue.  The  farther  the  singers  are  from 
each  other,  the  more  touching  sounds  the  strain.  The  best 
place  for  the  listener  is  halfway  between  the  two. 

In  order  to  let  me  hear  it,  they  landed  on  the  bank  of  the 
Guidecca,  and  took  up  different  positions  by  the  canal.  I 
walked  backward  and  forward  between  them,  so  as  to  leave 
the  one  whose  turn  it  was  to  sing,  and  to  join  the  one  who 
had  just  left  off.  Then  it  was  that  the  effect  of  the  strain 
first  opened  upon  me.  As  a voice  from  the  distance,  it 
sounds  in  the  highest  degree  strange,  — as  a lament  without 
sadness  : it  has  an  incredible  effect,  and  is  moving  even  to 
tears.  I ascribed  this  to  my  own  state  of  mind  ; but  my  old 
boatman  said,  “ E siugolare,  como  quel  canto  inteuerirsce,  e 
molto  piu  quando  e piu  ben  cantato.”  He  wished  that  I 
could  hear  the  women  of  the  Lido,  especially  those  of  Mala- 
mocco  and  Pelestrina.  These  also,  he  told  me,  chanted 
Tasso  and  Ariosto  to  the  same  or  similar  melodies.  He 
went  on,  “ In  the  evening,  while  their  husbands  are  on  the 
sea,  fishing,  they  are  accustomed  to  sit  on  the  beach,  and 
with  shrill,  penetrating  voice  to  make  these  strains  resound, 
until  they  catch  from  the  distance  the  voices  of  their  part- 
ners, and  in  this  waj'  they  keep  up  a communication  with 
them.”  Is  not  that  beautiful ? And  yet  it  is  very  possible 
that  one  who  heard  them  close  by  would  take  little  pleasure 
in  such  tones,  which  have  to  vie  with  the  waves  of  the  sea. 
Human,  however,  and  true,  becomes  the  song  in  this  way. 
Thus  is  life  given  to  the  melody  on  whose  dead  elements  we 
should  otherwise  have  been  sadly  puzzled.  It  is  the  song  of 
one  solitary,  singing  at  a distance,  in  the  hope  that  another 
of  kindred  feelings  and  sentiments  may  hear  and  answer. 

Venice,  Oct.  8,  1786. 

I paid  a visit  to  the  Palace  Pisani  Moretta,  for  the  sake 
of  a charming  picture  by  Paul  Veronese.  The  females  of  the 
family  of  Darius  are  represented  kneeling  before  Alexander 
and  Hephsestion  : his  mother,  who  is  in  the  foreground,  mis- 
takes Hephsestion  for  the  king ; turning  away  from  her,  he 
points  to  Alexander.  A strange  story  is  told  about  this 
painting.  The  artist  had  been  well  received  and  for  a long 


140 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


time  Iionorably  entertained  in  tlie  palace : in  return,  he 
secretly  painted  the  picture,  and  left  it  behind  him  as  a 
present,  rolled  up  under  his  bed.  Certainly  it  well  deserv’cs 
to  have  had  a singular  origin,  for  it  gives  an  idea  of  all  the 
peculiar  merits  of  this  master.  The  great  art  with  which  he 
manages,  by  a skilful  distribution  of  light  and  shade,  and 
by  an  equally  clever  contrast  of  the  local  colors,  to  produce 
a most  delightful  harmony,  without  throwing  any  sameness 
of  tone  over  the  whole  picture,  is  here  most  strikingly  visi- 
ble. For  the  picture  is  in  excellent  preservation,  and  stands 
before  us  almost  with  the  freshness  of  yesterday.  Indeed, 
whenever  a painting  of  this  order  has  suffered  fiom  neglect, 
our  enjo3mient  of  it  is  marred  on  the  spot,  even  before  we 
are  conscious  what  the  cause  maj"  be. 

Whoever  feels  disposed  to  cpiarrel  with  the  artist  on  the 
score  of  costume  has  only  to  say  he  ought  to  have  painted  a 
scene  of  the  sixteenth  century  ; and  the  matter  is  at  au  end. 
The  gradation  in  the  expression,  from  the  mother  through  the 
wife  to  the  daughters,  is  in  the  highest  degree  true  and  happju 
The  youngest  princess,  who  kneels  behind  all  the  rest,  is  a 
beautiful  girl,  and  has  a veiy  prett}’  but  somewhat  inde- 
pendent and  haughty  countenance.  Her  position  does  not 
at  all  seem  to  please  her. 

My  old  gift  of  seeing  the  world  with  the  eyes  of  that 
painter  whose  pictures  have  most  recently  made  an  impres- 
sion on  me,  has  occasioned  me  some  peculiar  reflections.  It 
is  evident  that  the  eye  forms  itself  by  the  objects  which  from 
youth  up  it  is  accustomed  to  look  upon  ; and  so  the  Venetian 
artist  must  see  all  things  in  a clearer  and  brighter  light  than 
other  men.  We,  whose  eye  when  out  of  doors  falls  on  a 
dingy  soil,  which,  when  not  mudd}’,  is  dusW.  and  which, 
always  colorless,  gives  a sombre  hue  to  the  reflected  rays,  or 
at  home  spend  our  lives  in  close,  narrow  rooms,  can  never 
' attain  to  such  a cheerful  view  of  nature. 

As  I floated  down  the  laguues  in  the  fuU  sunshine,  and 
observed  how  the  figures  of  the  gondoliers  in  their  motlej' 
costume,  and  as  the}'  rowed,  lighth’  moving  above  the  sides 
of  the  gondola,  stood  out  from  the  bright  gi’een  surface,  and 
against  the  blue  skj',  I caught  the  best  and  freshest  type 
possible  of  the  Venetian  school.  The  sunshine  brought  out 
the  local  colors  with  dazzling  brilliancy  ; and  the  shades  even 
were  so  luminous,  that,  comparatively,  they  in  their  turn 
might  serve  as  lights.  And  the  same  may  be  said  of  the 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


141 


reflection  from  the  sea-green  water.  All  was  painted  cJiiaro 
nell  cliiaro ; so  that  foamy  waves  and  lightning-flashes  were 
necessary  to  give  it  the  last  finish  {um  die  Tupfchen  auf 
i i”  zu  setzen) . 

Titian  and  Paul  have  this  brilliancy  in  the  highest  degree  ; 
and,  whenever  we  do  not  find  it  in  any  of  their  works,  the 
piece  is  either  damaged  or  has  been  touched  up. 

The  cupola  and  vaulting  of  St.  Mark’s,  with  its  side-walls, 
are  covered  with  paintings,  — a mass  of  richly  colored  figures 
on  a golden  ground,  all  in  mosaic-work  ; some  of  them  very 
:i  good,  others  but  poor,  according  to  the  masters  who  fur- 
nished the  cartoons. 

Circumstances  here  have  strangely  impressed  on  my  mind 
how  every  thing  depends  on  the  first  invention,  and  that  this 
constitutes  the  right  standard,  the  true  genius ; since  with 
i little  square  pieces  of  glass  (and  here  not  in  the  soberest 
manner)  it  is  possible  to  imitate  the  good  as  well  as  the 
bad.  The  art  which  furnished  to  the  ancients  their  pave- 
ments, and  to  the  Christians  the  vaulted  veilings  of  their 
churches,  fritters  itself  away  in  our  days  on  snuff-box  lids 
: and  bracelet-clasps.  The  present  times  are  worse  even  than 
one  thinks. 

Vexice,  Oct.  8, 1786. 

In  the  Farsetti  Palace,  there  is  a valuable  collection  of  casts 
from  the  best  antiques.  I pass  over  all  such  as  I had  seen 
before  at  Mannheim  or  elsewhere,  and  mention  only  new 
acquaintances,  — a Cleopatra  in  intense  repose,  with  the 
asp,  coiled  round  her  arm,  and  sinking  into  the  sleep  of 
death  ; a Niobe  shrouding  with  her  robe  her  youngest  daugh- 
ter from  the  an'ows  of  Apollo  ; some  gladiators  ; a winged 
genius  resting  in  his  flight ; some  philosophers,  both  in  sit- 
ting and  standing  postures. 

They  are  works  from  which,  for  thousands  of  j'ears  to 
come,  the  world  may  receive  delight  and  instruction,  without 
ever  being  able  to  equal  with  their  thanks  the  merits  of  the 
artists. 

Many  speaking  busts  transported  me  to  the  old,  glorious 
times.  Only  I felt,  alas  ! how  backward  I am  in  these  studies. 
However,  I will  go  on  with  them : at  least  I know  the  way. 
Palladio  has  opened  the  road  for  me  to  this  and  every  other 
art  and  life.  That  sounds,  probably,  somewhat  strange,  and 
yet  not  so  paradoxical  as  when  Jacob  Bohme  says,  that,  by 
•seeing  a pewter  platter  by  a ray  from  Jupiter,  he  was 


142 


]vEttp:rs  from  italy. 


f 

I 


enlightened  as  to  the  whole  universe.  There  is  also  in  this 
collection  a fragment  of  the  entablature  of  the  temple  of 
Antoninus  and  Faustina,  in  Rome. 

The  bold  front  of  this  noble  piece  of  architecture  remind-  ’ 
ed  me  of  the  capital  of  the  Pantheon  at  Mannheim.  It  is, 
indeed,  something  very  different  from  our  queer  saints,  piled 
up  one  above  the  other  on  little  consoles,  after  the  Gothic 
style  of  decoration  ; something  different  from  our  tobacco- 
pipe-like  shafts,  our  little  steeple-crowned  towers  and  foli- 
ated terminals.  From  all  taste  for  these  I am  now,  thank  : 
God,  set  free  forever  ! 

I will  further  mention  a few  works  of  statuary,  which,  as 
I passed  along  these  last  few  days,  I have  observed  with 
astonishment  and  instruction.  Before  the  gate  of  the  Arsenal  j 
two  huge  lions  of  white  marble  : the  one  is  half  recumbent,  j 
raising  himself  up  on  his  fore-feet ; the  other  is  lying,  — noble  I 
emblems  of  the  variety  of  life.  They  are  of  such  huge  • 
proportions,  that  all  around  appears  little,  and  man  himself  j 
would  become  as  nought,  did  not  sublime  objects  elevate 
him.  They  are  of  the  best  times  of  Greece,  and  were  brought ' r 
here  from  the  Piraeus,  in  the  better  days  of  the  Republic. 

From  Athens,  too,  in  all  probability,  came  two  bas-reliefs  i 
which  have  been  introduced  in  the  Church  of  St.  Justina.  the  ’ 
conqueress  of  the  Turks.  Unfortunately  they  are  in  some 
degree  hidden  by  the  church-seats.  The  sacristan  called  my 
attention  to  them,  on  account  of  the  tradition  that  Titian 
modelled  from  them  the  beautiful  angel  in  his  picture  of  the 
martyrdom  of  St.  Peter.  The  relievos  represent  genii,  who 
are  decking  themselves  out  with  the  attributes  of  the  gods, — j 
so  beautiful  in  truth  as  toffranscend  all  idea  or  conception. 

Next  I contemplated  with  quite  peculiar  feelings  the  naked  i 
colossal  statute  of  Marcus  Agrippa,  in  the  court  of  a palace : i 

a dolphin,  which  is  twisting  itself  b}"  his  side,  points  out  the  J 
naval  hero.  How  does  such  an  heroic  representation  make  » 
the  mere  man  equal  to  the  gods  ! 

I took  a close  view  of  the  horses  of  St.  Mark’s.  "When  ' 
one  looks  up  at  them  from  below,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  they 
are  spotted  : in  places  they  exhibit  a beautiful  yellow-metallic 
lustre,  in  other’s  a coppery  green  has  run  over  them.  View- 
ing them  more  closely,  one  sees  distinctly  that  once  they  were 
gilt  .all  over ; and  long  streaks  are  still  to  be  seen  over  them, 
as  the  barbarians  did  not  attempt  to  file  off  the  gold,  but 
tried  to  cut  it  off.  That,  too,  is  well : thus  the  shape  at 
least  has  been  presei’r’ed. 


I 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


143 


A glorious  team  of  horses  : I should  like  to  hear  the  opinion 
)f  a good  judge  of  horse-flesh.  What  seemed  strange  to  me 
vas,  that,  closely  viewed,  they  appear  heavy,  while  from  the 
:>iazza  below  the}’  look  as  light  as  deer. 

i Oct.  8,  1786. 

' Yesterday  I set  out  early,  with  my  tutelary  genius,  for  the 
lido, — -the  tongue  of  land  which  shuts  in  the  lagunes,  and 
livides  them  from  the  sea.  We  landed,  and  walked  straight 
ieross  the  isthmus.  I heard  a loud  hollow  murmur  : it  was 
he  sea.  I soon  saw  it : it  cre,sted  high  against  the  shore, 
ts  it  retired.  It  was  about  noon,  and  time  of  ebb.  I have 
hen  at  last  seen  the  sea  with  my  own  eyes,  and  followed 
it  on  its  beautiful  bed,  just  as  it  quitted  it.  I wished  the 
hildren  had  been  there  to  gather  the  shells  : child-like,  I 
■nyself  picked  up  plenty  of  them.  However,  I attempted  to 
■nake  them  useful : I tried  to  dry  in  them  some  of  the  fluid 
)f  the  cuttle-fish,  which  here  dart  away  from  you  in  shoals. 

On  the  Lido,  not  far  from  the  sea,  is  the  burial-place  of 
Englishmen,  and,  a little  farther  on,  of  the  Jews.  Both  alike 
ire  refused  the  privilege  of  resting  in  consecrated  ground. 
C found  here  the  tomb  of  Smith,  the  noble  English  consul, 
md  of  his  first  wife.  It  is  to  him  that  I owe  my  first  copy 
■)f  Palladio.  I thanked  him  for  it,  here  in  his  unconsecrated 
'>rave.  And  not  only  unconsecrated,  but  half  buried,' is  the 
iomb.  The  Lido  is  at  best  but  a sand-bank  (daune).  The 
?and  is  carried  from  it  backward  and  forward  by  the  wind, 
ind,  thrown  up  in  heaps,  is  encroaching  on  every  side.  In 

short  time  the  monument,  which  is  tolerably  high,  will  no 
ouger  be  visible. 

But  the  sea  — it  is  a grand  sight ! I will  try  and  get  a sail 
ipon  it  some  day  in  a fishing-boat.  The  gondolas  never 
/^enture  out  so  far. 

Oct.  8,  1786. 

On  the  seaeoast  I found,  also,  several  plants,  whose  ehar- 
icters,  similar  to  others  I already  knew,  enabled  me  to  ree- 
)gnize  pretty  well  their  properties.  They  are  all  alike,  fat 
tnd  strong,  full  of  sap,  and  clammy  ; and  it  is  evident  that 
he  old  salt  of  the  sandy  soU,  but  still  more  the  saline  atmos- 
phere, gives  them  these  properties.  Like  aquatic  plants, 
hey  abound  in  sap,  and  are  fleshy  and  tough,  like  moun- 
aiuous  ones.  Those  whose  leaves  show  a tendency  to  put 
orth  prickles,  after  the  manner  of  thistles,  have  them  ex- 


144 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


tremely  sharp  and  strong.  I found  a bush  -with  leaves  o: 
this  kind.  It  looked  very  much  like  our  harmless  colt’s 
foot,  onl}’  here  it  is  armed  with  sharp  weapons,  — the  leave; 
like  leather,  as  also  are  the  seed-vessels,  and  the  stalk  ven 
thick  and  succulent.  I bring  with  me  seeds  aud  specimen: 
of  the  leaves  {Eryngium  maritimum) . 

The  fish-market,  with  its  numberless  marine  productions 
afforded  me  much  amusement.  I often  go  there  to  coutem 
plate  the  poor  captive  inhabitants  of  the  sea. 

Vejuce,  Oct.  9, 1786. 

A delicious  da}',  from  morning  to  niglit.  I have  beer 
towards  Chiozza,  as  far  as  Pelestrina,  where  are  the  grea 
structures  called  “ Murazzi,”  which  the  republic  has  causec 
to  be  raised  against  the  sea.  They  are  of  hewn  stone,  anc 
properly  are  intended  to  protect  from  the  fury  of  the  wile 
element  the  tongue  of  lanel,  called  the  “ Lido,”  which  sepa- 
rates the  laguues  from  the  sea. 

The  laguues  are  the  woi'k  of  old  nature.  First  of  all,  thi 
laud  and  tide,  the  ebb  and  flow,  working  against  one  another 
and  then  the  gradual  sinking  of  the  primal  waters,  were,  to- 
gether, the  causes  why,  at  the  upper  end  of  the  Adriatic,  w( 
find  a pretty  extensive  range  of  marshes,  which,  covered 
the  flood-tide,  are  partly  left  bare  by  the  ebb.  Art  tool 
possession  of  the  highest  spots  ; aud  thus  arose  Venice,  former 
out  of  a group  of  a hundred  isles,  aud  surrounded  by  hun- 
dreds more.  Moreover,  at  an  incredible  expense  of  moue\ 
and  labor,  deep  canals  have  been  dug  through  the  marshes 
in  order,  that,  at  the  time  of  high  water,  ships-of-war  migh' 
pass  to  the  chief  points.  What  human  industry  aud  wr 
contrived  and  executed  of  old,  skill  aud  industry  must  uov 
keep  up.  The  Lido,  a long  narrow  strip  of  laud,  separate: 
the  lagunes  from  the  sea,  which  can  enter  at  only  two  points 

— at  the  castle  and  at  the  opposite  end,  near  Chiozza.  The 
tide  flows  in  usually  twice  a day,  and  with  the  ebb  car- 
ries out  the  waters  twice,  and  always  by  the  same  channe 
and  in  the  same  direction.  The  flood  covers  the  lowei 
parts  of  the  morass,  but  leaves  the  higher,  if  not  dry,  ye‘ 
visible. 

The  case  would  be  quite  altered,  were  the  sea  to  make 
new  ways  for  itself  to  attack  the  tongue  of  laud,  and  flow  ir 
and  out  wherever  it  chose.  Not  to  mention  that  the  litth 
villages  on  the  Lido  — viz.,  Pelestrina.  St.  Peter’s,  and  other: 

— would  be  overwhelmed,  the  canals  of  communication  woulc 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


145 


i)e  choked  up,  and,  while  the  water  involved  all  in  ruin,  the 
Ado  would  be  changed  into  an  island,  and  the  islands  which 
LOW  lie  behind  it  be  converted  into  necks  and  tongues  of 
laud.  To  guard  against  this,  it  was  necessary  to  protect  the 
Ado  as  far  as  possible,  lest  the  furious  element  should  capri- 
liiousl}'  attack  and  overthrow  what  man  had  already  taken 
possession  of,  and,  with  a certain  end  and  purpose,  given 
ihape  and  use  to. 

In  extraordinary  cases,  when  the  sea  rises  above  measure, 
t is  especially  necessary  to  prevent  it  entering  at  more  than 
wo  points.  Accordingly,  the  rest  of  the  sluice-gates  being 
hut,  it  is,  with  all  its  violence,  unable  to  enter,  and  in  a few 
lOurs  submits  to  the  law  of  the  ebb,  and  its  fury  lessens. 

But  Venice  has  nothing  to  fear:  the  extreme  slowness 
.nth  which  the  sea-line  retires  assures  to  her  thousands  of 
-ears  yet ; and,  by  prudently  deepening  the  canals  from  time 

0 time,  they  will  easily  maintain  their  possessions  against 
he  inroads  of  the  water. 

I only  wish  they  were  keeping  their  streets  a little  cleaner, 
-a  duty  which  is  as  necessary  as  it  is  easy  of  performance, 
md  which,  in  fact,  becomes  of  gi-eat  consequence  in  the  course 
If  centuries.  Even  now,  in  the  principal  thoroughfares,  it  is 
orbidden  to  throw  any  thing  into  the  canals  : the  sweepings 
fveu  of  the  streets  may  not  be  cast  into  them.  No  meas- 
res,  however,  are  taken  to  prevent  the  rain,  which  here  falls 
11  sudden  and  violent  torrents,  from  carrying  off  the  dirt, 
/hich  is  collected  in  piles  at  the  corner  of  every  street,  and 
mshing  it  into  the  lagunes,  nay,  what  is  still  worse,  into 
|he  gutters  for  carrying  off  the  water,  which  consequently 
h’e  often  so  completely  stopped  up,  that  the  principal  squares 
re  in  danger  of  being  under  water.  Even  in  the  smaller 
.iazza  of  St.  Mark’s  I have  seen  the  gullies,  which  are  well 
lid  down  there,  as  well  as  in  the  greater  square,  choked  up, 
ud  full  of  water. 

. When  a rainy  day  comes,  the  filth  is  intolerable : every 
ne  is  cursing  and  scolding.  In  ascending  and  descending 
,ie  bridges,  one  soils  one’s  mantle  and  great-coat  (Tabarro) , 

, hich  is  here  woim  all  the  year  round  ; and,  as  one  goes  along 

1 shoes  and  silk  stockings,  he  gets  splashed,  and  then  scolds  ; 
pr  it  is  not  common  mud,  but  such  as  adheres  and  stains, 
|iat  one  is  here  splashed  with.  The  weather  soon  becomes 
,ne  again,  and  then  no  one  thinks  of  cleaning  the  streets, 
low  true  is  the  saying,  the  public  is  ever  complaining  that 
I'  is  ill  served,  and  never  knows  how  to  set  about  getting 


146 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


better  served.  Here,  if  the  sovereign  people  wished  it,  it 
might  be  done  forthwith. 

This  evening  I ascended  the  Tower  of  St.  Mark’s.  As  I 
liad  lately  seen  from  its  top  the  lagunes  in  their  glory  at 
flood-time,  I wished  also  to  see  them  at  low  water;  for,  in 
order  to  have  a correct  idea  of  the  place,  it  is  necessary  to 
take  in  both  view's.  It  looks  strange  to  see  land  all  around 
where  there  had  previously  been  a mirror  of  waters.  The 
islands  are  no  longer  islands,  merely  higher  and  house- 
crowned  spots  in  one  large  morass  of  a gi’a3'-greenish  color, 
and  intersected  by  beautiful  canals.  The  marsh}’  parts  are 
overgrown  with  aquatic  plants,  — a circumstance  which  must 
tend,  in  time,  to  raise  their  level,  although  the  ebb  and  flow 
are  continually  shaking  and  tossing  them,  and  leave  no  rest 
to  the  vegetation. 

I now  return  w'ith  my  naiTative  once  more  to  the  sea.  I 
there  saw  yesterday  the  haunts  of  the  sea-snails,  the  limpets, 
and  the  crab,  and  w’as  highly  delighted  with  the  sight.  Mhat 
a precious  glorious  object  is  a living  thing ! how  wonder- 
fully adapted  to  its  state  of  existence,  how  ti-ue,  how  reat 
(seyend)  ! What  great  advantages  I now  derive  from  my 
former  studies  of  nature,  and  how  delighted  I am  with  the 
opportunity  of  continuing  them ! But,  as  this  is  a mattei 
that  admits  of  being  communicated,  I will  not  excite  the 
sympathy  of  my  friends  by  mere  exclamations. 

The  stoue-w'orks  which  have  been  built  against  the  inroads 
of  the  sea  consist,  flrst  of  all,  of  several  steep  steps ; then 
comes  a slightly  inclined  plane  ; then,  again,  they  rise  a step, 
which  is  once  more  succeeded  by  a gently  ascending  surface ; 
and  last  of  all  comes  a perpendicular  wall  with  an  overhang- 
ing coping  over  these  steps : over  these  planes  the  raging 
sea  rises,  until,  in  extraordinary  cases,  it  even  dashes  ovei 
the  highest  wall  with  its  projecting  head. 

The  sea  is  followed  by  its  inhabitants,  — little  periwinkles 
good  to  eat,  mouovalve  limpets,  and  whatever  else  has  the 
power  of  motion,  especially  by  the  ijungar-crabs.  But 
scarcely  have  these  little  creatures  taken  possession  of  the 
smooth  walls,  when  the  sea  retires  again,  swelling  and  erest- 
iug  as  it  came.  At  flrst  the  crowd  know  not  where  they 
are,  and  keep  hoping  that  the  briny  flood  will  soon  return 
but  it  still  keeps  away.  The  sun  scorches,  and  quickly  dries 
all  up  ; and  now  begins  the  retreat.  It  is  on  these  occasions 
that  the  puugars  seek  their  i)rey.  Nothing  more  wonderfu. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


147 


or  comical  can  be  seen  than  the  maiKEiivres  of  these  little 
creatures,  with  their  round  bodies  and  two  long  claws  (for 
the  other  spider-feet  are  scarcely  worth  noticing) . On  these 
istilted  fore-legs,  as  it  were,  they  stride  along,  watching  the 
limpets  ; and,  as  soon  as  one  moves  under  its  shell  on  the 
ffock,  a pungar  comes  up,  and,  inserting  the  point  of  his  claw 
jin  the  tiny  interstice  between  the  shell  and  the  rock,  turns  it 
over,  and  so  manages  to  swallow  the  oyster.  The  limpets, 
on  the  other  hand,  proceed  cautiously  on  their  way,  and  by 
suction  fasten  themselves  firmly  to  the  rocky  surface  as  soon 
as  they  are  aware  of  the  proximity  of  their  foe.  In  such 
oases  the  pungar  deports  himself  amusingl}"  enough : round 
,aud  round  the  pulpy  animal,  who  keeps  himself  safe  beneath 
his  roof,  will  he  go  with  singular  politeness  ; but  not  succeed- 
ing with  all  his  coaxing,  and  being  unable  to  overcome  its 
powerful  muscle,  he  leaves  in  despair  this  intended  victim, 
and  hastens  after  another,  who  may  be  wandering  less  cau- 
tiously on  his  way. 

I never  saw  a crab  succeed  in  his  designs,  although  I have 
watched  for  hours  the  retreat  of  the  little  troop  as  they 
crawled  down  the  two  planes  and  the  intermediate  steps. 

Venice,  Oct.  10, 1786. 

; At  last  I am  able  to  say  that  I have  seen  a comedy.  Y'es- 
:erday,  at  the  theatre  of  St.  Luke,  was  performed  “ Le  Ba- 
•uffe-Chiozotte,” . vfhich.  I should  interpret  the  “Frays  and 
i^euds  of  Chiozza.”  The  dramatis  personcB  are  principally 
seafaring  people,  inhabitants  of  Chiozza,  with  their  wives, 
sisters,  and  daughters.  The  usual  noisy  demonstrations  of 
liuch  sort  of  people  in  their  good  or  ill  luck,  their  dealings 
one  with  another,  their  vehemence,  but  goodness  of  heart, 
immmonplace  remarks  and  unaffected  manners,  their  7iaive 
(vit  and  humor,  — all  this  was  excellently  imitated.  The  play, 
noreover,  is  Goldoni’s  ; and  as  I had  been  only  the  day  be- 
,bre  in  the  place  itself,  and  as  the  tones  and  manners  of  the 
;ailors  and  people  of  the  seaport  still  echoed  in  my  ears  and 
loated  before  my  eyes,  it  delighted  me  very  much  ; and,  al- 
■hough  I did  not  understand  a single  allusion,  I was,  on  the 
v'hole,  able  to  follow  the  plot  pretty  well.  I will  now  give 
;'Ou  the  plan  of  the  piece.  It  opens  with  the  females  of  Chi- 
|izza  sitting,  as  usual,  on  the  strand  before  their  cabins, 
pinning,  mending  nets,  sewing,  or  making  lace.  A youth 
)asses  by,  and  notices  one  of  them  with  a more  friendly  greet- 
ing than  he  does  the  rest.  Imniediatel}'  the  joking  begins, 


148 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


and  observes  no  bounds.  Becoming  tarter  and  tarter,  and 
growing  ill-tempered,  it  soon  bursts  out  into  reproaches: 
abuse  vies  with  abuse.  In  the  midst  of  all,  one  dame,  more 
vehement  than  the  rest,  bounces  out  with  the  truth ; and  now 
an  endless  din  of  scolding,  railing,  and  screaming.  There 
is  no  lack  of  more  decided  outrage,  and  at  last  the  peace- 
officers  are  compelled  to  interfere. 

The  second  act  opens  with  the  court  of  justice.  In  the 
absence  of  the  podestci  (who,  being  a noble,  could  not  law- 
fully be  brought  upon  the  stage) , the  actuarius  presides. 
He  orders  the  women  to  be  brought  before  him  one  by  one. 
This  gives  rise  to  an  interesting  scene.  It  happens  that  this 
official  personage  is  himself  enamoured  of  the  first  of  the 
combatants  who  is  brought  before  him.  Only  too  happy  to 
have  an  opportunity  of  speaking  with  her  alone,  instead  of 
hearing  what  she  has  to  say  on  the  matter  in  question,  he 
makes  her  a declaration  of  love.  In  the  midst  of  it  a second 
woman,  who  is  herself  in  love  with  the  actuary,  in  a fit  of 
jealousy  rushes  in,  and  with  her  the  suspicious  lover  of  the 
first  damsel,  who  is  followed  by  all  the  rest ; and  now  the 
same  demon  of  confusion  riots  in  the  court,  as,  a little  before, 
had  set  at  loggerheads  the  people  of  the  harbor.  In  the 
third  act  the  fun  gets  more  and  more  boisterous,  and  the 
whole  ends  with  a hasty  and  poor  denonment.  The  happiest 
thought,  however,  of  the  whole  piece,  is  a character  who  is 
thus  drawn  : an  old  sailor,  who,  owing  to  the  hardships  to 
which  he  had  been  exposed  from  his  childhood,  trembles  and 
falters  in  all  his  limbs,  and  especially  in  his  organs  of  speech, 
is  Irrought  on  the  scene  to  serve  as  a foil  to  this  restless, 
screaming,  and  jabbering  crew.  Before  he  can  utter  a word, 
he  has  to  make  a long  preparation  by  a slow  twitching  of 
his  lips  and  an  assistant  motion  of  his  hands  and  arms : at 
last  he  blurts  out  what  his  thoughts  are  on  the  matter  in 
dispute.  But,  as  he  can  onl}’  manage  to  do  this  in  very  short 
sentences,  he  acquires  thereby  a sort  of  laconic  gravity,  so 
that  all  he  utters  sounds  like  an  adage  or  maxim ; and  in 
this  way  a happy  contrast  is  afforded  to  the  wild  and  pas- 
sionate exclamations  of  the  other  personages. 

But,  even  as  it  was,  I never  witnessed  any  thing  like  the 
noisy  delight  the  people  evinced  at  seeing  themselves  and 
their  mates  represented  with  such  truth  of  nature.  It  was 
one  continued  laugh,  and  tumultuous  shout  of  exultation, 
from  beginning  to  end.  I must,  however,  confess  that  the 
piece  \vas  extremely  well  acted  by  the  playei-s.  According  to 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


149 


the  cast  of  their  several  parts,  they  had  adopted  among  them 
the  different  tones  of  voice  which  usually  prevail  among  the 
; inhabitants  of  the  place.  The  first  actress  was  the  universal 
f favorite,  more  so  even  than  she  had  recenti}'  been  in  an 
) heroic  dress  and  a scene  of  passion.  The  female  plaj’ers 
■ generally,  but  especially  this  one,  imitated  in  the  most  pleas- 
I ing  manner  possible  the  twang,  the  manners,  and  other  pe- 
I culiarities,  of  the  people  they  represented.  Great  praise  is 
I due  to  the  author,  who  out  of  nothing  has  here  created  the 
I most  amusing  divertissement.  However,  he  never  could  have 
I done  it  with  any  other  people  than  his  own  merry  and  light- 
hearted countrymen.  The  farce  is  written  throughout  with 
[ a practised  hand. 

j Of  Sacchi’s  company, . for  Avhich  Gozzi  wrote  (but  which 
I by  the  bj'  is  now  broken  up),  I saw  Smeraldina,  a short, 

1 plump  figure,  full  of  life,  tact,  and  good  humor.  With  her 
I I saw  Brighella,  a slight  well-made  man  and  an  excellent 
I actor,  especially  in  pantomime.  These  masks,  which  we 
\ scarcely  know,  except  in  the  form  of  mummings,  and  which 
I to  our  minds  possess  neither  life  nor  meaning,  succeed  here 
! only  too  well  as  the  creation  of  the  national  taste.  Here  the 
f most  distinguished  characters,  persons  of  eveiy  age  and 
i , condition,  think  nothing  of  dressing  themselves  out  in  the 

[strangest  costumes  ; and  as,  for  the  greater  part  of  the  year, 
they  are  accustomed  to  wander  about  in  masks,  they  feel  no 
j surprise  at  seeing  the  black  visors  on  the  stage  also. 

I ■ Venice,  Ort.  11,  178G. 

I Since  solitude  in  the  midst  of  a great  crowd  of  human 
I beings  is,  after  all,  not  possible,  I have  taken  up  with  an  old 
j Frenchman,  who  knows  nothing  of  Italian,  and  suspects  that 
he  is  cheated  on  all  hands,  and  taken  advantage  of,  and 
* who,  notwithstanding  plenty  of  letters  of  recommendation, 

' does  not  make  his  way  with  the  good  people  here.  A man 
j of  rank,  who  is  well  bred,  but  v/hose  mmd  cannot  go  beyond 
j himself  and  his  own  immediate  circle.  He  is  perhaps  full 
' . fifty,  and  has  at  home  a boy  seven  years  old,  of  whom  he  is 
j always  anxious  to  get  news.  He  is  travelling  through  Italy 
( for  pleasure,  but  rapidly,  in  order  to  be  able  to  say  that  he 
has  seen  it,  but  is  willing  to  learn  whatever  is  possible  as  he 
hurries  along.  I have  shown  him  some  civilities,  and  given 
him  information  about  many  matters.  While  I was  speaking 
to  him  about  Venice,  he  asked  me  how  long  I had  been  here, 
and  when  he  heard  that  this  was  my  first  visit,  and  that  I 


150 


LETTERS  ERO]\I  ITALY. 


had  only  been  here  fourteen  days,  he  replied,  “ J7  parait  qne 
vousn’avez  pas  perdu  votre  temps.”  This  is  the  first  testi- 
monium of  my  good  behavior  that  I can  furnish  you.  He 
has  been  here  a week,  and  leaves  to-morrow.  It  was  highly 
delicious  to  me  to  meet  in  a strange  land  with  such  a regular 
Versailles  man.  He  is  now  about  to  quit  me.  It  caused 
me  some  surprise  to  think  that  any  one  could  ever  travel  in 
this  temper,  without  a thought  for  any  thing  beyond  himself ; 
and  yet  he  is,  in  his  way,  a polished,  sensible,  and  well-con- 
ducted person. 


Ve>uce,  Oct.  12, 1786. 

Yesterday,  at  St.  Luke’s,  a new  piece  was  acted,  “ L’lngli- 
cisino  in  Italia  ” ( “ The  English  in  Italy  ” ) . As  there  are  many 
Englishmen  living  in  Italy,  it  is  not  unnatural  that  their  ways 
and  habits  should  excite  notice  ; and  I expected  to  learn  from 
this  piece  what  the  Italians  thought  of  their  rich  and  welcome 
visitors.  But  it  was  a total  failure.  There  were,  of  course 
(as  is  always  the  case  here) , some  clever  scenes  between  buf- 
foons ; but  the  rest  was  cast  altogether  in  too  grave  and  heavy 
a mould,  and  jmt  not  a trace  of  the  English  good  sense ; 
plenty  of  the  ordinary  Italian  commonplaces  of  morality,  and 
those,  too,  upon  the  most  common  topics. 

And  it  did  not  take  : indeed,  it  was  on  the  very  point  of 
being  hissed  off  the  stage.  The  actors  felt  themselves  out 
of  their  element,  not  on  the  strand  of  Chiozza.  As  this  was 
the  last  piece  that  I saw  here,  my  enthusiasm  for  these 
national  representations  did  not  seem  likely  to  be  increased 
b}"  this  piece  of  folly. 

As  I have  at  last  gone  through  my  journal,  and  entered 
some  occasional  remarks  from  my  tablets,  my  proceedings 
are  now  enrolled,  and  left  to  the  sentence  of  my  friends. 
There  is,  I am  conscious,  very  much  in  these  leaves  which  I 
might  qualif}^,  enlarge  upon,  and  improve.  Let.  however, 
what  is  written  stand  as  the  memorial  of  first  impressions, 
which,  if  not  always  correctf  will  nevertheless  be  ever  dear 
and  precious  to  me.  Oh  that  I could  but  transmit  to  my 
friends  a breath  merely  of  this  light  existence  ! Verily,  to  the 
Italian,  “ ultramontane”  is  a very  vague  idea:  and,  before 
my  mind  even,  “ bejmud  the  Alps”  rises  r-ery  obscurely, 
although  from  out  of  their  mists  friendly  forms  are  beckon- 
ing to  me.  It  is  the  climate  only  that  seduces  me  to  prefer 
a while  these  lands  to  those  ; for  birth  and  habit  forge  strong 
fetters.  Here,  however,  I could  not  live,  nor,  indeed,  in  auy 


lp:tters  from  italy. 


151 


place  where  I had  nothing  to  occupy  my  mind  ; but  at  present 
novelty  furnishes  me  here  with  endless  occupation.  Archi- 
tecture rises,  like  an  ancient  spirit  from  the  tombs,  and  bids 
me  study  its  laws,  just  as  people  study  the  rules  of  a dead 
language,  not  in  order  to  practise  or  to  take  a living  joy  in 
them,  but  only  in  order  to  enable  myself,  in  the  quiet  depths 
of  my  own  mind,  to  do  honor  to  her  existence  in  bygone  ages, 
and  her  forever  departed  glory.  As  Palladio  everywhere 
refers  one  to  Vitruvius,  I have  bought  Galiaui’s  edition  ; 
but  this  folio  suffers  in  my  portmanteau  as  much  as  my  brain 
does  in  the  study  of  it.  Palladio,  by  his  words  and  works, 
by  his  method  and  way,  both  of  thinking  and  of  executing, 
has  brought  Vitruvius  home  to  me,  and  interpreted  him  far 
better  than  the  Italian  translator  ever  can.  Vitruvius  him- 
self is  no  easy  reading;  his  book  is  obscurely  written,  and 
requires  a critical  study.  Notwithstanding,  I have  read  it 
through  cursorily,  and  it  has  left  on  my  mind  many  a glori- 
ous impression.  To  express  my  meaning  better,  I read  it 
like  a breviary,  more  out  of  devotion  than  for  instruction. 
Already  the  days  begin  to  draw  in,  and  allow  more  time  for 
reading  and  writing. 

God  be  praised  ! "Whatever  from  my  youth  up  appeared  to 
me  of  worth  is  beginning  once  more  to  be  dear  to  me.  How 
happy  do  I feel  that  I can  again  venture  to  approach  the 
ancient  authors  ! For  now  I may  tell  it,  and  confess  at 
once  my  disease  and  my  folly.  For  many  a long  year  I could 
not  bear  to  look  at  a Latin  author,  or  to  cast  my  eye  upon 
any  thing  that  might  serve  to  awaken  in  my  mind  the  thoughts 
of  Italy.  If  by  accident  I did  so,  I suffered  the  most  hor- 
rible tortures  of  mind.  It  was  a frequent  joke  of  Flerder’s, 
at  my  expense,  that  I had  learned  all  my  Latin  from  Spinoza  ; 
for  he  had  noticed  that  this  was  the  onl}'  Latin  work  I ever 
read.  But  he  was  not  aware  how  carefully  I was  obliged  to 
keep  myself  from  the  ancients  ; how  even  these  abstruse 
generalities  were  but  cursorily  read  by  me,  and  even  then 
not  without  pain.  At  last  matters  came  to  that  pitch  that 
even  the  perusal  of  Wieland’s  translation  of  the  “ Satires” 
made  me  utterly  wretched.  I had  barely  read  two  when  I 
was  already  beside  n^^^’self. 

Had  I not  made  the  resolve  which  I am  now  carrying  into 
effect,  I should  have  been  altogether  lost,  to  such  a degree 
of  Intensity  had  the  desire  grown  to  see  these  objects  with 
my  own  eyes.  Historical  acquaintance  with  them  did  me  no 
good.  The  things  stood  only  a hand’s-breadth  away  from 


152 


lettp:rs  from  Italy. 


me ; but  still  they  were  separated  from  me  by  an  impene- 
trable wall.  And  in  fact,  at  the  present  moment  I some- 
how feel  as  if  this  were  not  the  first  time  that  I had  seen 
these  things,  but  as  if  I were  paying  a second  visit  to  them. 
Although  I have  been  but  a short  time  in  Venice,  I have 
adapted  myself  pretty  well  to  the  ways  of  the  place,  and 
feel  confident  that  I shall  carry  away  with  me  a clear  and 
true,  though  incomplete,  idea  of  it. 

Venice,  Oct.  14, 1786. 

Two  o’clock,  morning. 

In  the  last  moments  of  my  stay  here ; for  I am  to  start 
almost  immediately,  with  the  packet-boat,  for  FeiTara.  I 
quit  Venice  without  reluctance  ; for,  to  stay  here  longer  with 
any  satisfaction  and  profit  to  myself,  I must  take  other  steps, 
which  would  carry  me  beyond  my  present  plan.  Besides, 
ever3’body  is  now  leaving  this  city,  and  making  for  the  beau- 
tiful gardens  and  seats  on  the  Terra  Firma.  I;  however,  go 
awa}'  well  loaded,  and  shall  carry  along  with  me  its  rich, 
rare,  and  unique  image. 


FROM  FERRARA  TO  ROME. 

Oct.  16,  1786,  early  in  the  morning. 

And  on  board  the  packet. 

]\Iv  travelling  companions,  male  and  female  alike,  are  all 
still  fast  asleep  in  their  berths.  For  my  part,  I have  passed 
the  two  nights  on  deck,  wrapped  up  in  m}'  cloak.  It  was 
only  towards  morning  that  I felt  it  getting  cold.  I am  now 
actually  in  latitude  forti  -five,  and  yet  go  on  repeating  my 
old  song,  — I w'ould  gladly  leave  all  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
laud,  if  only,  after  the  fashion  of  Dido,  I could  enclose 
enough  of  the  heavens  to  surround  our  dwellings  with.  It 
w'ould  then  be  quite  another  state  of  existence.  The  voyage 
in  this  glorious  w’eather  has  been  most  delightful,  the  views 
and  prospects  simple,  but  agreeable,  ^he  Fo,  with  its  fer- 
tilizing stream,  flows  here  through  wide  plains.  Nothing, 
however,  is  to  be  seen  but  its  banks  covered  with  trees  or 
bushes  : you  catch  no  distant  view.  On  this  river,  as  on 
the  Adige,  are  sillj’  water-works,  which  are  as  rude  and  ill- 
constructed  as  those  on  the  Saab 


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153 


Ferkara,  Oct.  10,  1786. 

At  night. 

Although  I only  arrived  here  early  this  morning  (bj'  seven 
o’clock,  German  time),  I am  thinking  of  setting  off  again 
to-morrow  morning.  For  the  fust  time  sinee  I left  home,  a 
feeling  of  dissatisfaction  has  fallen  upon  me  in  this  great 
and  beautiful,  but  flat  and  depopulated  city.  These  streets, 
now  so  desolate,  were,  however,  once  kept  in  animation  by  a 
brilliant  court.  Here  dwelt  Ariosto  discontented,  and  Tasso 
unhappy ; and  so  we  fancy  we  gain  edification  by  visiting 
such  scenes.  Ariosto’s  monument  contains  much  marble, 
ill  arranged  : for  Tasso’s  prison  they  show  a wood-house  or 
coal-house,  where,  most  assuredly,  he  never  was  kept.  More- 
over, the  people  pretend  to  know  scarcely  any  thing  you  may 
ask  about.  But  at  last,  for  “something  to  drink ’’  they  man- 
age to  remember.  All  this  brings  to  my  mind  Luther’s  ink- 
spots,  which  the  housekeeper  freshens  up  from  time  to  time. 
Most  travellers,  however,  are  little  better  than  our  Hand- 
werksburschen,  or  strolling  journeymen,  and  content  them- 
selves with  such  palpable  signs.  For  my  part,  I grew  quite 
sulky,  and  took  little  interest,  even  in  a beautiful  institute 
and  academy  which  a cardinal,  a native  of  Ferrara,  founded 
and  endowed.  However,  some  ancient  monuments  in  the 
Ducal  Palace  served  to  revive  me  a little  ; and  I was  put  in 
perfect  good  humor  by  a beautiful  conception  of  a painter,  — 
John  the  Baptist  before  Herod  and  Herodias.  The  prophet, 
in  his  well-known  dress  of  the  wilderness,  is  pointing  indig- 
nantly at  Herodias.  Quite  unmoved,  she  looks  at  the  prince, 
who  is  sitting  by  her  side,  while  the  latter  regards  the 
prophet  with  a calm  but  cunning  look.  A white,  middle-sized 
greyhound  stands  before  the  king,  while  from  beneath  the 
robe  of  Herodias  a small  Italian  one  is  peeping,  both  barking 
at  the  prophet.  To  my  mind,  this  is  a most  happy  thought. 

Cento,  Oct.  17,  1786. 

In  a better  temper  than  yesterday  I write  you  to-day 
from  Guercino’s  native  city.  It  is,  however,  quite  a different 
place,  — a hospitable,,  well-built  little  town  of  nearly  five 
thousand  inhabitants,  flourishing,  full  of  life,  cleanly,  and 
situated  in  a well-cultivated  plain,  which  stretches  farther 
than  the  eye  can  reach.  According  to  my  usual  custom,  I 
ascended  the  tower.  A sea  of  poplars,  between  which, 
and  near  at  hand,  one  catches  glimpses  of  little  country- 
houses,  each  surrounded  by  its  fields.  A rich  soil  aud  a 


154 


LETTEES  FROM  ITALY. 


beautiful  climate.  It  was  an  autumn  evening,  such  as  we 
seldom  have  to  thank  even  summer  for.  The  sky,  which 
has  been  veiled  all  day,  has  cleared  up,  the  clouds  rolling 
off  north  and  south  towards  the  mountains,  and  I hope  to- 
morrow will  be  a bright  day. 

Here  I first  saw  the  Apennines,  which  I am  approaching. 
The  winter  in  this  region  lasts  only  through  December  and 
January.  April  is  rainy.  The  rest  of  the  year  the  weather 
is  beautiful,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  season.  Inces- 
sant rain  is  unknown.  September  here,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
was  finer  and  warmer  than  August  with  you.  The  Apen- 
nines in  the  south  have  received  a warm  greeting  from  me, 
for  I have  now  had  enough  of  the  plain.  To-morrow  I shall 
be  writing  at  the  foot  of  them. 

Guercino  loved  his  native  town  : indeed,  the  Italians  almost 
universally  cherish  and  maintain  this  sort  of  local  patriot- 
ism ; and  it  is  to  this  beautiful  feeling  that  Italy  owes  so 
mail}-  of  its  valuable  institutions  and  its  multitude  of  local 
sanctuaries.  Under  the  management  of  this  master,  an 
academy  of  painting  was  formed  here.  He  left  behind  him 
many  paintings,  of  which  his  townsmen  are  still  very  proud, 
and  which,  indeed,  fully  justify  their  pride. 

Guercino  is  here  a sacred  name,  and  that,  too,  in  the 
mouths  of  children  as  well  as  of  the  old. 

Most  charmed  was  I with  his  picture  representing  the 
risen  Lord  appearing  to  his  mother.  Kneeling  before  him, 
she  looks  upon  him  with  indescribable  affection.  Her  left 
hand  is  touching  his  body  just  under  the  confounded  wound, 
which  mars  the  whole  picture.  His  hand  lies  upon  her  neck ; 
and,  in  order  the  better  to  gaze  upon  her,  his  body  is  slightly 
bent  back.  This  gives  to  his  figure  a somewhat  strange, 
not  to  say  forced,  appearance.  And  yet,  for  all  that,  it  is 
infinitely  beautiful.  The  calm  and  sad  look  with  which 
he  contemplates  her  is  unique,  and  seems  to  convey  the 
impression  that  before  his  noble  soul  there  still  floats  a 
reinembrance  of  his  own  sufferings  and  of  hers,  which  the 
resurrection  had  not  at  once  dispelled. 

Strange  has  engraved  the  picture.  I wish  that  my  friends 
could  see  even  his  copy  of  it. 

After  it  a Madonna  wou  my  admiration.  The  child  wants 
the  breast : she  modestly  shi'inks  from  exposing  her  bosom. 
Natural,  noble,  exquisite,  and  beautiful. 

Further,  a Mary,  who  is  guiding  the  arm  of  the  infant 
Christ,  standing  before  her  with  his  face  towards  the  people, 


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155 


in  order  that  with  uplifted  fingers  he  may  bestow  his  bless- 
ings upon  them.  Judged  by  the  spirit  of  Roman-Catholic 
mythology,  this  is  a very  happy  idea,  which  has  often  been 
repeated. 

Guercino  is  an  intrinsically  bold,  masculine,  sensible 
painter,  without  roughness.  On  the  contrary,  his  pieces 
possess  a certain  tender  moral  grace,  a reposeful  freedom 
and  grandeur,  but,  with  all  that,  a certain  mannerism,  so  that, 
when  the  eye  once  has  grown  accustomed  to  it,  it  is  impossi- 
ble to  mistake  a piece  of  his  hand.  The  lightness,  clean- 
ness, and  finish  of  his  touch,  are  perfectly  astonishing.  For 
his  draperies  he  is  particularly  fond  of  a beautiful  brownish- 
red  blend  of  colors.  These  harmonize  very  well  with  the 
blue  which  he  is  fond  of  combining  with  them. 

The  subjects  of  the  other  paintings  are  more  or  less  un- 
happily chosen.  The  good  artist  has  strained  all  his  powers, 
but  his  invention  and  execution  alike  are  thrown  away  and 
wasted.  However,  I derived  both  entertainment  and  profit 
from  the  view  of  this  cycle  of  art,  although  such  a hasty  and 
rapid  glance  as  I could  alone  bestow  upon  them  affords  but 
little  of  either  gratification  or  instruction. 


Boloona,  Oct.  18,  1786. 

Night. 

Yesterday  I started  very  early,  before  daybreak,  from 
Cento,  and  arrived  here  in  pretty  good  time.  A brisk  and 
well-educated  cicerone,  having  learned  that  I did  not  intend 
to  make  a long  stay  here,  hurried  me  through  all  the  streets, 
and  into  so  many  palaces  and  churches,  that  I had  scarcely 
time  to  set  down  in  my  note-book  the  names  of  them  ; and  I 
hardly  know  if  hereafter,  when  I shall  look  again  at  these 
scrawls,  I shall  be  able  to  call  to  mind  all  the  particulars.  I 
will  now,  however,  mention  a couple  or  so  of  objects  w'hicli 
stand  out  bright  and  clear  enough,  as  they  afforded  me  a real 
gratification  at  the  time. 

First  of  all,  the  Cecilia  of  Raphael.  It  was  exactly  what  I 
had  been  told  of  it,  but  now  I saw  it  wdth  mj'  own  eyes.  He 
has  invariably  accomplished  that  which  others  wished  in  vain 
to  accomplish,  and  I would  at  present  say  no  more  of  it  than 
that  it  is  by  him.  Five  saints,  side  by  side  ; not  one  of  them 
has  any  thing  in  common  with  us : however,  their  existence 
stands  so  perfectly  real,  that  one  would  wish  for  the  picture 
to  last  through  eternity,  even  though  for  himself  he  could  be 
content  to  be  annihilated.  But  in  order  to  understand  Ra- 


166 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


phael  aright,  and  to  form  a just  appreciation  of  him,  and  not 
to  praise  him  as  a god,  or  as  Melchisedec,  “without  descent  ” 
or  pedigree,  it  is  necessary  to  study  his  masters  and  his 
predecessors.  These,  too,  had  a standing  on  the  firm  soil  of 
truth.  Diligently,  not  to  say  anxiously,  they  had  laid  the 
foundation,  and  vied  witli  each  other  in  raising,  step  by  step, 
the  pyramid  aloft,  until  at  last,  profiting  by  all  their  labors, 
and  enlightened  by  a heavenly  genius,  Raphael  set  the  last 
stone  on  the  summit,  above  which,  or  even  at  which,  no  one 
else  can  ever  stand. 

Our  interest  in  the  history  of  art  becomes  peculiarly  lively 
when  we  consider  the  works  of  the  old  masters.  Francesco 
Francia  is  a very  respectable  artist ; Pietro  Perugino,  so 
bold  a man,  that  one  might  almost  call  him  a noble  German 
fellow.  Oh  that  fate  had  carried  Albert  Durer  farther  into 
Italy  ! In  Munich  I saw  a couple  of  pieces  by  him  of  incredi- 
ble grandeur.  Poor  man  ! how  he  mistook  his  own  worth  in 
Venice,  and  made  an  agreement  with  the  priests,  on  which 
he  lost  weeks  and  months  ! See  him,  in  his  journej’  through 
the  Netherlands,  exchanging  his  noble  works  of  art  for 
parrots,  and,  in  order  to  save  his  douceur,  drawing  the  por- 
traits of  the  domestics,  who  bring  him  — a plate  of  fruit. 
To  me  the  history  of  such  a poor  fool  of  an  artist  is  infinitely 
touching. 

Towards  evening  I got  out  of  this  ancient,  venerable,  and 
learned  cit}’,  and  extricated  myself  from  its  crowds,  who.  pro- 
tected from  the  sun  and  weather  b}'  the  arched  bowers  which 
are  to  be  seen  in  almost  every  street,  walk  about,  gape  about, 
or  buy  and  sell,  and  transact  whatever  business  they  may 
have.  I ascended  the  tower,  and  enjoyed  the  pure  air.  The 
view  is  glorious.  To  the  north  we  see  the  hills  of  Padua ; 
beyond  them  the  Swiss,  Tyrolese,  and  Friulian  Alps, — in 
short,  the  whole  northern  chain,  which  at  the  time  was  en- 
veloped in  mist.  'Westward  there  stretched  a boundless 
horizon,  above  which  the  towel's  of  Modena  alone  stood  out. 
Towards  the  east  a similar  plain,  reaching  to  the  shores  of 
the  Adriatic,  whose  waters  might  be  discerned  in  the  setting 
sun.  Towards  the  south,  the  first  hills  of  the  Apennines, 
which,  like  the  Vicentine  Hills,  are  planted  up  to  their  sum- 
mits, or  covered  with  churches,  palaces,  and  summer-houses. 
The  sky  was  perfectly  clear,  not  a cloud  to  be  seen,  only  on 
the  horizon  a kind  of  haze.  The  keeper  of  the  tower  assured 
me,  that,  for  six  years,  this  mist  had  never  left  the  distance. 
Otherwise,  by  the  help  of  a telescope,  you  might  easily  dis- 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


157 


cern  the  hills  of  Vicenza,  with  their  houses  and  chapels,  but 
now  very  rarely,  even  on  the  brightest  days.  And  this  mist 
lay  chiefly  on  the  northern  chain,  and  makes  our  beloved 
fatherland  a regular  Cimmeria.  In  proof  of  the  salubrity  of 
the  situation,  and  pure  atmosphere  of  the  city,  he  called  my 
notice  to  the  fact  that  the  roofs  of  the  houses  looked  quite 
fresh,  and  that  not  a single  tile  was  attacked  by  damp  or 
moss.  It  must  be  confessed  that  the  tiles  look  quite  clean, 
and  beautiful  enough : but  the  good  quality  of  the  brick- 
earth  may  have  something  to  do  with  this  ; at  least  we  know, 
that,  in  ancient  times,  excellent  tiles  were  made  in  these 
parts. 

The  Leaning  Tower  has  a frightful  look,  and  yet  it  is  most 
probable  that  it  was  built  so  by  design.  The  following  seems 
to  me  the  explanation  of  this  absurdity.  In  the  disturbed 
times  of  the  city,  every  large  edifice  was  a fortress,  and  every 
powerful  family  had  its  tower.  By  and  by  the  possession 
of  such  a building  became  a mark  of  splendor  and  distinc- 
tion ; and  as,  at  last,  a perpendicular  tower  was  a common 
and  every-day  thing,  an  oblique  one  was  built.  Both  archi- 
tect and  owner  have  obtained  their  object : the  multitude  of 
slender,  upright  towers  are  just  looked  at,  and  all  hurry  to  ‘ 
see  the  leaning  one.  Afterwards  I ascended  it.  The  bricks 
are  all  arranged  horizoutallj".  With  clamps  and  good  cement 
one  may  build  any  mad  whim. 


Bologna,  Oct.  19, 1786, 
Evening. 

I have  spent  this  day  to  the  best  advantage  I could  in  vis- 
iting and  revisiting.  But  it  is  with  art  as  with  the  world  : the 
more  we  study  it,  the  larger  we  find  it.  In  this  heaven,  new 
stars  are  constantly  appearing  which  I cannot  count,  and 
which  sadly  puzzle  me,  — the  Carracci,  a Guido,  a Domini- 
chino,  who  shone  forth  in  a later  and  happier  period  of  art, 
but  whom  truly  to  enjoy  requires  both  knowledge  and  judg- 
ment which  I do  not  possess,  and  which  cannot  be  acquired 
in  a hurry.  A great  obstacle  to  our  taking  a pure  delight  in 
their  pictures,  and  to  an  immediate  understanding  of  their 
merits,  are  the  absurd  subjects  of  most  of  them.  To  admire 
or  to  be  charmed  with  them  one  must  be  a madman. 

It  is  as  though  the  sous  of  God  had  wedded  with  the 
daughters  of  men,  and  out  of  such  a union  many  a monster 
had  sprung  into  existence.  No  sooner  are  you  attracted  by 
the  gusto  of  a Guido  and  his  pencil,  by  which  nothing  but  the 


158 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


f 


most  excellent  objects  the  eye  sees  are  worthy  to  be  painted, 
but  you  at  once  withdraw  your  eyes  from  a subject  so  abomi- 
nably stupid  that  the  world  has  no  term  of  contempt  suffi-  ^ 

cient  to  express  its  meanness  ; and  so  it  is  throughout.  It  ■ 

is  ever  anatomy,  an  execution,  a flaying  scene  ; alwa3's  some  < 
suffering,  never  an  action  of  the  hero,  never  an  interest  in 
the  scene  before  jmu ; alwaj’S  something  for  the  fanc}’,  some 
excitement  accruing  from  without.  Nothiug  but  deeds  of 
horror  or  convulsive  sufferings,  malefactors  or  fanatics, 
alongside  of  whom  the  artist,  in  order  to  save  his  art,  invari- 
ably slips  in  a naked  boy  or  a pretty  damsel,  as  a spectator,  j 
in  every  case  treating  his  spiritual  heroes  as  little  better  than  j 
lay-figures  {Oliedermanner)  on  which  to  hang  some  beautiful  j 
mantle  with  its  folds.  In  all  there  is  nothing  that  suggests  I 
a human  notion.  Scarcel}’  one  subject  in  ten  that  ever  ought  i 
to  have  been  painted,  and  that  one  the  painter  has  chosen  to  i 
view  from  anj’  but  the  right  point  of  view. 

Guido’s  great  picture  iu  the  Church  of  the  Mendicants  is 
all  that  painting  can  do,  but,  at  the  same  time,  all  that  ab- 
surdity could  task  an  artist  with.  It  is  a votive  piece.  I 
can  well  believe  that  the  wliole  consistory  praised  it,  and 
also  that  they  devised  it.  The  two  angels,  who  were  fit  to 
console  a Psyche  in  her  misery,  must  here  . . . 

The  St.  Proclus  is  a beautiful  figure,  but  the  others  — 
bishops  and  popes ! Below  are  heavenly  children  plaving 
with  attributes.  The  painter,  who  had  no  choice  lert  him, 
labored  to  help  himself  as  best  he  could.  He  exerted  him- 
self merely  to  show  that  he  was  not  the  barbarian.  Two 
naked  figures  by  Guido,  a St.  John  in  the  AVilderness,  a 
Sebastian  — how  exquisitely  painted,  and  what  do  the}'  sa}'? 

The  one  is  gaping  and  the  other  wriggling. 

AVere  I to  contemplate  history  iu  my  present  ill  humor,  I 
should  say,  faith  revived  art,  but  superstition  immediately 
made  itself  master  of  it,  and  ground  it  to  Ihe  dust. 

After  dinner,  seeming  somewhat  of  a milder  temper,  and 
less  arrogantl}'  disposed  than  in  the  morning.  I entered  the 
following  remarks  in  mj'  note-book.  In  the  Palace  of  the 
Tanari  there  is  a famous  picture  by  Guido,  — the  A^irgiu  suc- 
kling the  infant  Saviour,  of  a size  rather  larger  than  life, 
the  head  as  if  a god  had  painted  it.  Indescribable  is  the 
expression  with  which  she  gazes  upon  the  suckling  infant. 

To  me  it  seems  a calm,  profound  resignation,  as  if  she  were 
nourishing,  not  the  child  of  her  joy  and  love,  but  a supposi- 
titious, heaveul}'  changeling,  and  goes  on  suckling  it  because 


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159 


now  she  cannot  do  otherwise,  although  in  deep  humility  she 
w'onders  how  she  ever  came  to  do  it.  The  rest  of  the  canvas 
is  filled  up  with  a mass  of  drapery  which  connoisseurs  highly 
prize.  For  m3"  part,  I know  not  what  to  make  of  it.  The 
colors,  too,  are  somewhat  dim.  The  room  and  the  day  were 
none  of  the  brightest. 

Notwithstanding  the  confusion  in  which  I find  m3"self,  I 
yet  feel  that  experience,  knowledge,  and  taste  alread}"  come 
to  my  aid  in  these  mazes.  Thus  I was  great!}"  won  by  a 
Circumcision  b}"  Guercino,  for  I have  begun  to  know  and 
to  understand  the  man.  I can  now  pardon  the  intolerable 
subject,  and  delight  in  the  masterl}"  execution.  Let  him 
paint  whatever  can  be  thought  of  ; ever}’  thing  will  be  praise- 
worthy, and  as  highly  finished  as  if  it  were  enamel. 

And  thus  it  happened  with  me,  as  with  Balaam,  the  over- 
ruled prophet,  who  blessed  where  he  thought  to  curse.  And 
I fear  this  w’ould  be  the  case  still  oftener,  were  I to  stay  here 
much  longer. 

And  then,  again,  if  one  happens  to  meet  with  a picture 
after  Raphael,  or  what  may  with  at  least  some  probability 
be  ascribed  to  him,  one  is  soon  perfectly  cured,  and  in  good 
temper  again.  I fell  in  yesterday  with  a St.  Agatha,  a rare 
picture,  though  not  throughout  in  good  keeping.  The  artist 
has  given  to  her  the  mien  of  a young  maiden  full  of  health 
and  self-possession,  but  yet  without  rusticity  or  coldness.  I 
have  stamped  on  my  mind  both  her  form  and  look,  and  shall 
mentally  read  before  her  my  “ Iphigenia,”  and  shall  not 
allow  my  heroine  to  express  a sentiment  which  the  saint 
herself  might  not  give  utterance  to. 

And  now,  when  I tiiink  again  of  this  sweet  burden  which 
I carry  with  me  throughout  my  wanderings,  I cannot  conceal 
the  fact,  that,  besides  the  great  objects  of  nature  and  art 
which  I have  yet  to  work  my  way  through,  a wonderful  train 
of  poetical  images  keeps  rising  before  me,  and  unsettling  me. 
From  Cento  to  this  place  I have  been  wishing  to  continue  my 
labors  on  the  “ Iphigenia  ; ” bnt  what  has  happened?  Inspi- 
ration has  brought  before  my  mind  the  plan  of  an  “ Iphige- 
nia at  Delphi,”  and  I must  work  it  out.  I will  here  set  down 
the  argument  as  briefly  as  possible. 

Electra,  confidently  hoping  that  Orestes  will  bring  to 
Delphi  the  image  of  the  Tauriau  Diana,  makes  her  appear- 
ance in  the  Temple  of  Apollo,  and,  as  a final  sin-offering, 
dedicates  to  the  god  the  axe  which  has  perpetrated  so  many 
horrors  in  the  house  of  Pelops.  Unhappily,  she  is  at  this 


160 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


1 


moment  joined  by  a Greek,  who  recounts  to  her  how,  having 
accompanied  Pylades  and  Orestes  to  Tauris,  he  there  saw 
the  two  friends  led  to  execution,  but  had  himself  luckily 
made  his  escape.  At  this  news,  the  passionate  Electra  is 
unable  to  restrain  herself,  and  knows  not  whether  to  vent 
her  rage  against  the  gods,  or  against  men.  , 

In  the  mean  time,  Iphigenia,  Orestes,  and  Pilades  have  j 
arrived  at  Delphi.  T!ie  heavenly  calmness  of  Iphigenia  j 
contrasts  remarkably  with  the  earthly  vehemence  of  Electra,  t 
as  the  two  sisters  meet  without  knowing  each  other.  The 
fugitive  Greek  gains  sight  of  Iphigenia.  and,  recognizing  in 
lier  the  priestess  who  was  to  haA'e  sacrificed  the  two  friends,  i 
makes  it  known  to  Electra.  The  latter,  snatching  the  axe  i 
from  the  altar,  is  on  the  point  of  killing  I])higenia,  when  a : 
happy  incident  averts  this  last  fearful  calamit}’  from  the  two  • 
sisters.  This  situation,  if  onl}'  I can  succeed  in  working  it 
out  well,  will  probably  furnish  a scene  unequalled  for  gran- 
deur or  pathos  by  any  that  has  yet  been  produced  on  the  • 
stage.  But  where  is  man  to  get  time  and  hands  for  such  . 
a work,  even  if  the  spirit  be  willing? 

As  I feel  iu3"self  at  present  somewhat  oppressed  with  such  » 
a flood  of  thoughts  of  the  good  and  desirable,  I cannot  help 
reminding  my  friends  of  a dream  which  I had  about  a j'ear  •/ 
ago,  and  which  appeared  to  me  to  be  highly  significant.  I 
dreamed,  forsooth,  that  I had  been  sailing  about  in  a little 
boat,  and  had  landed  on  a fertile  and  richly  cultivated  island, 
of  which  I had  a consciousness  that  it  bred  the  most  beau- 
tiful pheasants  in  the  world.  I bargained,  I thought,  with 
the  people  of  the  island  for  some  of  these  birds  ; and  they 
killed  and  brought  them  to  me  in  gi’eat  numbers.  The}’  were 
pheasants,  indeed  ; but  as,  in  dreams,  all  things  are  generallj’  , 
changed  and  modified,  they  seemed  to  have  long,  richly  col- 
ored tails,  like  the  loveliest  birds-of-paradise.  and  with  eyes 
like  those  of  the  peacock.  Bringing  them  to  me  by  scores, 
the}’  arranged  them  in  the  boat  so  skilfully,  with  the  heads 
inwards,  the  long,  variegated  feathers  of  the  tail  hanging 
outwards,  as  to  form  in  the  bright  sunshine  the  most  glori- 
ous pile  conceivable,  and  so  large  as  scarcely  to  leave  room 
enough  in  the  bow  and  the  stern  for  the  rower  and  the  steers- 
man. As  with  this  load  the  boat  made  its  way  through  the 
tranquil  waters,  I named  to  myself  the  friends  ;unoug  whom 
I should  like  to  distribute  those  A’ariegated  treasures.  At 
last,  arriving  in  a spacious  harbor.  I was  almost  lost  among 
great  and  many-masted  vessels,  as  I mounted  deck  after 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


161 


deck  in  order  to  discover  a place  where  I might  safely  run 
my  little  boat  ashore. 

Such  dream}' visions  have  a charm  ; inasmuch  as,  springing 
from  our  mental  state,  they  possess  more  or  less  of  analogy 
with  the  rest  of  our  lives  and  fortunes. 

But  now  I have  also  been  to  the  famed  scientific  building 
called  the  Institution,  or  Gli  Studj.  The  edifice  is  large  ; 
and  the  inner  court  especially  has  a very  imposing  appear- 
ance, although  not  of  the  best  style  of  architecture.  In  the 
staircases  and  corridors  there  was  no  want  of  stuccos  and 
frescos.  They  are  all  appropriate  and  suitable ; and  the 
numerous  objects  of  beauty,  which,  well  worth  seeing,  are 
here  collected  together,  justl}^  command  our  admiration. 
For  all  that,  however,  a German  accustomed  to  a more  lib- 
eral course  of  study  than  is  here  pursued  will  not  be  alto- 
ijether  content  with  it. 

' Here,  again,  a former  thought  occurred  to  me  ; and  I could 
lot  but  refiect  on  the  pertinacity,  which  in  spite  of  time, 
vhich  changes  all  things,  man  shows  in  adhering  to  the  old 
.hapes  of  his  public  buildings,  even  long  after  they  have 
leen  applied  to  new  purposes.  Our  churches  still  retain  the 
onn  of  the  basilica,  although,  probabl}',  the  plan  of  the  tem- 
fie  would  better  suit  our  worship.  In  Italy  the  courts  of 
aistice  are  as  spacious  and  lofty  as  the  means  of  a commu- 
ity  are  able  to  make  them.  One  can  almost  fancy  himself 
3 be  in  the  open  air,  where  justice  used  once  to  be  admin is- 
)red.  And  do  we  not  build  our  great  theatres,  with  their 
ffiees  under  a roof,  exactly  similar  to  those  of  the  first  the- 
trical  booths  of  a fair,  which  were  hurriedly  put  together  of 
jauks?  The  vast  multitude  of  those  in  whom,  about  the 
me  of  the  Reformation,  a thirst  for  knowledge  was  awak- 
led,  obliged  the  scholars  at  our  universities  to  take  shelter 
3 they  could  in  the  burghers’  houses  ; and  it  was  very  long 
Tore  any  colleges  for  pupils  ( Waisenliduser)  were  built, 
ereby  facilitating  for  poor  youths  the  acquirement  of  the 
- : :cessary  education  for  the  world. 

Bologna,  Oct.  20, 1786. 

Evening. 

The  whole  of  this  bright  and  beautiful  day  I have  spent 
i the  open  air.  I scarcely  ever  come  near  a mountain,  but 
1/  interest  in  rocks  and  stones  again  revives.  I feel  as  did 
#■'-  -litseus  of  old,  who  found  himself  endued  with  new  strength 


162 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


as  often  as  he  was  brought  into  fresh  contact  with  his  mother- 
earth.  I rode  towards  Palermo,  where  is  found  the  so-called 
Bolognese  sulphate  of  barytes,  out  of  which  are  made  the 
little  cakes,  which,  being  calcined,  shine  in  the  dark,  if  pre- 
viously they  have  been  exposed  to  the  light,  and  which  the 
people  here  call,  shortly  and  expressively,  ‘‘  phosphor!.” 

On  the  road,  after  leaving  behind  me  a hilly  track  of  argil- 
laceous sandstone,  I came  upon  whole  rocks  of  selenite, 
quite  visible  on  the  surface.  Near  a brick-kiln  a cascade 
precipitates  its  waters,  into  which  many  smaller  ones  also 
empty  themselves.  At  first  sight  the  traveller  might  suppose 
he  saw  before  him  a loamy  hill,  which  had  been  worn  away 
by  the  rain  : ou  closer  examination,  I discovered  its  tme  na- 
ture to  be  as  follows  : the  solid  rock  of  which  this  part  of  the 
liue  of  hills  consists  is  schistous,  bituminous  clay  of  veiT  fine 
strata,  and  alternating  with  gwpsum.  The  schistous  stone  is 
so  intimately  blended  with  pyrites,  that,  exposed  to  the  air 
and  moisture,  it  wholly  changes  its  nature.  It  swells,  the 
strata  gradually  disappear,  and  thei'e  is  formed  a kind  of 
potter’s  clay,  crumbling,  shelly,  and  glittering  on  the  surface 
like  stone-coal.  It  is  only  by  examining  large  pieces  of  both 
(I  myself  broke  several,  and  observed  the  forms  of  both), 
that  it  is  possible  to  convince  one’s  self  of  the  transition  anc 
change.  At  the  same  time  we  observed  the  shelly  strap 
studded  with  white  points,  and  occasionally,  also,  variegatet 
wdth  yellow  particles.  In  this  way,  by  degrees,  the  whoh  | 
surface  crumbles  away  ; and  the  hill  looks  like  a mass  o 
weatherworn  pju-ites  on  a large  scale.  Among  the  lamia: 
some  are  harder,  of  a green  and  red  color.  Pyrites  I ver 
often  found  disseminated  in  the  rock. 

I now  passed  along  the  channels  which  the  last  violer 
gullies  of  rain  had  worn  in  the  crumbling  rock.  and.  to  m 
great  delight,  found  many  specimens  of  the  desired  barvte.- 
mostly  of  an  imperfect  egg-shape,  peeping  out  in  sever: 
places  of  the  friable  stone,  some  tolerably  pure,  and  sou 
slightly  mingled  with  the  clay  in  which  they  were  embeddec 
That  they  have  not  been  carried  hither  by  external  agenc 
any  one  may  convince  himself  at  the  first  glance.  IVheth 
they  were  contemporaneous  with  the  schistous  clay, 
whether  they  first  arose  from  the  swelling  and  dissolving  : 
the  latter,  is  matter  calling  for  further  inquiry.  Of  t; 
specimeus  I found,  the  larger  and  smaller  approximated  ) 
an  imperfect  egg-shape : the  smallest  might  be  said  to  ver3 
upon  irregular  ciystalliue  forms.  The  heaviest  of  the  piecs 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


163 


I brought  away  weighed  seventeen  loth  (eight  ounces  and  a 
half).  Loose  in  the  same  clay,  I also  found  perfect  ciys- 
tals  of  gj^psum.  Mineralogists  will  be  able  to  point  out 
further  peculiarities  in  the  specimens  I bring  with  me.  And 
I was  now  again  loaded  with  stones  ! I have  packed  up  at 
least  half  a quarter  of  a hundred-weight. 

Oct.  20, 1786.  In  the  night. 

How  much  I should  have  still  to  say,  were  I to  attempt  to 
confess  to  you  all  that  has  this  beautiful  day  passed  through 
my  mind ! But  my  wishes  are  more  powerful  than  my 
thoughts.  I feel  myself  hurried  irresistibly  forward.  It  is 
only  with  an  effort  that  I can  collect  myself  sufficiently  to 
attend  to  what  is  before  me.  And  it  seems  as  if  Heaven 
heard  my  secret  praj’er.  Word  has  just  been  brought  me, 
that  there  is  a vetturuio  going  straight  to  Rome  ; and  so,  the 
day  after  to-moiTOw,  I shall  set  out  direct  for  that  city.  I 
I must,  therefore,  to-day  and  to-morrow,  look  after  my  affairs, 

: make  all  my  little  arrangements,  and  despatch  my  many 
j commissions. 

j Lugano  on  the  Apennines, 

J Oct.  21,  1786.  Evening. 


r i Whether  I to-day  was  driven  from  Bologna  b}^  myself,  or 
^ Iwhether  I have  been  ejected  from  it,  I cannot  say.  Suffice 
^i;|it,  that  I eagerly  availed  myself  of  an  earlier  opportunity  of 
. (quitting  it.  And  so  here  I am  at  a wretched  inn,  in  com- 
*'pany  with  an  officer  of  the  Pope’s  army,  who  is  going  to 
fPerugia,  where  he  was  born.  In  order  to  say  something,  as 
ll  seated  myself  by  his  side  in  the  two- wheeled  carriage,  I 
ijpaid  him  the  compliment  of  remarking,  that,  as  a German 
jaccustomed  to  associate  with  soldiers,  I found  it  very  agreea- 
sble  to  have  to  travel  with  an  officer  of  the  Pope.  “ Pray  do 
inot,”  he  replied,  “ be  offended  at  what  I am  about  to  answer, 
lit  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  be  fond  of  the  military  profes- 

Ision ; for  in  Germany,  as  I have  heard,  every  thing  is 
nilitary.  But  with  regard  to  myself,  although  our  service  is 
light  enough,  — so  that  in  Bologna,  where  I am  in  garrison,  I 
lan  do  just  as  I like,  — still  I heartily  wish  I were  rid  of  this 
jacket,  and  had  the  disposal  of  my  father’s  little  property. 
(But  I am  a younger  son,  and  so  must  be  content.” 

I Oct.  22,  1786.  Evening. 

I'  j Here  at  Giredo,  which  also  is  a little  paltry  place  on  the 
.^Apennines,  I feel  quite  happy,  knowing  that  I am  advancing 


164 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


towards  the  gratification  of  my  dearest  wishes.  To-day  we 
were  joined  by  a riding  party,  — a gentleman  and  a lad}’, 
an  Englishman  and  a soi-disant.  Their  horses  are  beautiful ; 
but  they  ride  unattended  by  any  servants,  and  the  gentle- 
man, as  it  appears,  acts  the  part  both  of  groom  and  valet-de- 
chambre.  Everywhere  they  find  something  to  complain  of. 
To  listen  to  them  is  like  reading  a few  pages  out  of  Archeu- 
holz’s  book. 

To  me  the  Apennines  are  a most  remarkable  portion  of 
the  world.  The  great  plains  of  the  basin  of  the  Po  are  fol- 
lowed by  a hilly  tract  which  rises  out  of  the  bottom,  in 
order,  after  running  between  the  two  seas,  to  form  the 
southern  extremity  of  the  continent.  If  the  hills  had  been 
not  quite  so  steep  and  high  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  and 
had  not  their  directions  crossed  and  recrossed  each  other  as 
they  do,  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  tides  in  primeval  times 
might  have  exercised  a greater  and  wider  influence  on  them, 
and  might  have  washed  over  and  formed  extensive  plains  : in 
which  case  this  would  have  been  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
regions  of  this  glorious  clime,  — somewhat  higher  than  the 
rest  of  it.  As  it  is,  however,  it  is  a strong  net  of  mountain- 
ridges,  interlacing  each  other  in  all  directions.  One  often  is 
puzzled  to  know  whither  the  waters  will  find  their  vent.  If 
the  valleys  were  better  filled  up,  and  the  bottoms  flatter  and 
more  irrigated,  the  land  might  be  compared  to  Bohemia, 
only  that  the  mountains  have  in  every  respect  a different 
character.  However,  it  must  not  for  one  moment  be 
thought  of  as  a mountainous  waste,  but  as  a highly  culti- 
vated though  hilly  district.  The  chestnut  grows  very  fine 
here  ; the  wheat  excellent,  and  that  of  this  year’s  sowing  is 
already  of  a beautiful  green.  Along  the  roads  are  planted 
evergreen  oaks  with  their  small  leaves ; but  around  the 
churches  and  chapels,  the  slim  cypress. 


Perugia,  Oct.  25,  1786. 

Evening. 

For  two  evenings  I have  not  been  writing.  The  inns  on 
the  road  were  so  wretchedly  bad,  that  it  was  quite  useless  to 
think  of  bringing  out  a sheet  of  paper.  jMoreover,  I begin 
to  be  a little  puzzled  to  find  any  thing ; for,  since  quitting 
Venice,  the  travelling-bag  has  got  more  and  more  into  con- 
fusion. 

Early  in  the  morning  (at  twenty-three  o’clock,  or  about 
ten  of  our  reckoning)  we  left  the  region  of  the  Apennines, 


I 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


165 


and  saw  Florence  in  an  extensive  valley,  which  is  highly 

I cultivated,  and  sprinkled  over  with  villas  and  houses  without 
il  end. 

I ran  rapidly  over  the  city,  the  cathedral,  the  baptistery. 
Here,  again,  a perfectly  new  and  unknown  world  opened  upon 
; me,  on  which,  however,  I will  not  further  dwell.  The  gar- 
dens of  the  Botoli  are  most  delightfully  situated.  I hastened 
1 out  of  them  as  fast  as  I had  entered  them, 
j In  the  city  we  see  the  proof  of  the  prosperity  of  the  gen- 
t eratious  who  built  it.  The  conviction  is  at  once  forced  upon 
( us,  that  they  must  have  enjoyed  a long  succession  of  wise 
j rulers.  But,  above  all,  one  is  struck  with  the  beauty  and 
! grandeur  which  distinguish  all  the  public  works  and  roads 
j and  bridges  in  Tuscany.  Every  thing  here  is  at  once  sub- 
. I stantial  and  clean.  Use  and  profit,  not  less  than  elegance,  are 

I I alike  kept  in  view  ; everywhere  we  discern  traces  of  the  care 
I ! which  is  taken  to  preserve  them.  The  cities  of  the  Papal 
1 ! States,  on  the  contrary,  only  seem  to  stand  because  the  earth 

i is  unwilling  to  swallow  them  up. 

! The  sort  of  country  that  I lately  remarked  the  region  of 
J ( the  Apennines  might  have  been,  is  what  Tuscany  really  is. 
i I As  it  lies  so  much  lower,  the  ancient  sea  was  able  to  do 
•j  its  duty  properly,  and  has  thrown  up  here  deep  beds  of 
: excellent  marl.  It  is  a light  yellow  hue,  and  easily  worked, 

r 1 They  plough  deep,  retaining,  however,  most  exactly  the 
^ j ancient  manner.  Their  ploughs  have  no  wheels,  and  the 
M I share  is  not  movable.  Bowed  down  behind  his  oxen, 
if  I the  peasant  pushes  it  down  into  the  earth,  and  turns  up 
i the  soil.  They  plough  over  a field  as  many  as  five  times, 
I and  use  but  little  dung,  which  they  scatter  with  the  hands. 

' ! After  this,  they  sow  the  corn.  Then  they  plough  togetlier 
4-  two  of  the  smaller  ridges  into  one,  and  so  form  deep  trenches, 

: ! of  such  a nature  that  the  rain-water  easily  runs  off  the  lands 
■;  into  them.  When  the  eorn  is  grown  up  on  the  ridges,  they 
; can  also  pass  along  these  trenehes  in  order  to  weed  it.  This 
i way  of  tilling  is  a very  sensible  one  wherever  there  is  a fear 
1 of  over-moisture  ; but  why  it  is  praetised  on  these  rich  open 
plains  I cannot  undei’stand.  This  remark  I just  made  at 
Arezzo,  where  a glorious  plain  expands  itself.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  find  cleaner  fields  anywhere.  Not  even  a lump  of 
earth  is  to  be  seen : all  is  as  fine  as  if  it  had  been  sifted. 
Wheat  thrives  here  most  luxuriantly,  and  the  soil  seems  to 
possess  all  the  qualities  required  by  its  nature.  Every 
second  year,  beaus  are  planted  for  the  horses,  who  in  this 


1G6 


LETTERS  FR0:M  ITALY. 


country  get  no  oats.  Lupines  are  also  much  cultivated,  vhich 
at  this  season  are  beautifully  green,  being  ripe  in  March. 
The  flax,  too,  is  up.  It  stands  the  winter,  and  is  rendered 
more  durable  l)y  frost. 

The  olive-trees  are  strange  plants.  They  look  very  much 
like  willows  : like  them,  also,  they  lose  the  heart  of  the  wood, 
aud  the  bark  splits.  But  still  they  have  a greater  appear- 
ance of  durability  ; aud  one  sees  from  the  wood,  of  which 
the  grain  is  extremely  fine,  that  it  is  a slow  grower.  The 
foliage,  too,  resembles  that  of  the  willow,  only  the  leaves  on 
the  branches  are  thinner.  All  the  hills  around  Florence  are 
covered  with  olive-trees  and  vines,  between  which  grain  is 
sown  ; so  that  every  spot  of  gTound  may  be  made  profitable. 
Near  Arezzo,  and  farther  on,  the  fields  are  left  more  free.  I 
observed  that  they  take  little  care  to  eradicate  the  mx  which 
is  so  injurious  to  thje  olive  and  the  vine,  although  it  would  be 
so  easy  to  destroy  it.  There  is  not  a meadow  to  be  seen. 
It  is  said  that  the  Indian  corn  exhausts  the  soil.  Since  it  has 
been  introduced,  agriculture  has  suffered  in  its  other  crops. 
I can  well  believe  it  with  their  scanty  niAnuring. 

Yesterday  I took  leave  of  my  captain,  with  a promise  of 
visiting  him  at  Bologna  on  my  return.  lie  is  a true  repre- 
sentative of  the  majority  of  his  countrymen.  Here,  however, 
I would  record  a peculiarity  which  personalW  distinguished 
him.  As  I often  sat  quiet,  aud  lost  in  thought,  he  once  ex- 
claimed, “ Che  x>6iisa?  non  deve  mai  pensar  Vnomo,  pen- 
sando  s'invecchia  ; ” which,  being  interpreted,  is  as  much  as 
to  say,  “■  What  are  you  thinking  about?  A man  ought  never 
to  think.  Thinking  m.akes  one  old.”  Aud  now  for  another 
apothegm  of  his:  “Won  deve  fermarsi  Vuomo  in  una  sola 
cosa^perclie  allora  divien  matto;  bisogna  aver  mille  cose,  una 
confusione  nella  testa;”  in  plain  English,  “A  man  ought 
not  to  rivet  his  thoughts  exclusively  on  any  one  thing  : other- 
wise he  is  sure  to  go  mad.  He  ought  to  have  in  his  head  a 
thousand  things,  a regular  medley.” 

Certainly  the  good  man  could  not  know  that  the  very  thing 
which  made  me  so  thoughtful  was  my  having  my  head  mazed 
by  a regular  confusion  of  things,  old  aud  new.  The  follow- 
ing anecdote  will  serve  to  elucidate  still  more  clearly  the 
mental  character  of  an  Italian  of  this  class.  Having  soon 
discovered  that  I was  a Protestant,  he  obseiwed.  after  some 
circumlocution,  that  he  hoped  I would  allow  him  to  ask  me 
a few  questions  ; for  he  had  heard  such  strange  things  about 
us  Protestants,  that  he  wished . to  know  for  a certainty  what 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


167 


to  think  of  ns.  “May  you,”  he  said,  “live  with  a pretty 
girl  without  being  married  to  her  ? do  your  priests  allow  you 
to  do  so?  ” To  this  I replied,  that  “ our  priests  are  prudent 
folk,  who  take  no  notice  of  such  trifles.  No  doubt,  if  we  were 
to  consult  them  upon  such  a matter,  they  would  not  permit  it.  ’ ’ 
— “Are  you,  then,  not  obliged  to  ask  them?”  he  exclaimed. 
“ Happy  fellows  ! as  they  do  not  confess  you,  the}'  of  course 
do  not  find  it  out.”  Hereupon  he  gave  vent,  in  man}'  re- 
proaches, to  his  discontent  with  his  own  priests,  uttering  at 
the  same  time  loud  praises  of  our  liberty.  “But,”  he  con- 
tinued, “as  regards  confession:  how  stands  it  with  you? 
We  are  told  that  all  men,  even  if  they  are  not  Christians, 
must  confess,  but  that  inasmuch  as  many,  from  their  obdu- 
racy, are  debarred  from  the  right  way,  they  nevertheless 
make  confession  to  an  old  tree ; which,  indeed,  is  impious 
and  ridiculous  enough,  but  yet  serves  to  show,  that  at  least 
they  recognize  the  necessity  of  confession.”  Upon  this  I 
explained  to  him  our  Lutheran  notions  of  confession,  and 
our  practice  concerning  it.  All  this  appeared  to  him  very 
easy,  for  he  expressed  an  opinion  that  it  was  almost  the 
same  as  confessing  to  a tree.  After  a brief  hesitation,  he 
begged  of  me  very  gravely  to  inform  him  correctly  on  another 
point.  He  had,  forsooth,  heard  from  the  mouth  of  his  own 
confessor  (who,  he  said,  was  a truthful  man) , that  w'e  Protest- 
ants are  at  liberty  to  marry  onr  own  sisters  ; w'hich  assuredly 
is  a chose  un  peu  forte.  As  I denied  this  to  be  the  case, 
and  attempted  to  give  him  a more  favorable  opinion  of  our 
doctrine,  he  made  no  special  remark  on  the  latter,  which 
evidently  appeared  to  him  a very  ordinary  and  every-day 
sort  of  a thing,  but  turned  aside  my  remarks  by  a new  ques- 
tion. “We  have  been  assured,”  he  observed,  “ that  Fred- 
erick the  Great,  who  has  won  so  many  victories,  even  over 
the  faithful,  and  filled  the  world  with  his  glory,  — that  he 
whom  every  one  takes  to  be  a heretic  is  really  a Catholic, 
and  has  received  a dispensation  from  the  Pope  to  keep  the 
fact  secret.  For  while,  as  is  well  known,  he  never  enters 
any  of  your  churches,  he  diligently  attends  the  true  worship 
in  a subteiTanean  chapel,  though  with  a broken  heart,  be- 
cause he  dare  not  openly  avow  the  holy  religion,  since,  were 
he  to  do  so,  his  Prussians,  who  are  a brutish  people  and 
furious  heretics,  would  no  doubt  murder  him  on  the  instant ; 
and  to  risk  that  would  do  no  good  to  the  cause.  On  these 
I grounds  the  Holy  Father  has  given  him  permission  to  wor- 
: ship  in  secret,  in  return  for  which  he  quietly  does  as  much 


168 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


as  possible  to  propagate  and  to  favor  the  trae  and  only  say- 
ing faith.”  I allowed  all  this  to  pass,  merely  observing,  as 
it  was  so  great  a secret,  no  one  could  be  a witness  to  its 
truth.  The  rest  of  our  conversation  was  nearly  of  the  same 
cast ; so  that  I could  not  but  admire  the  shrewd  priests,  who 
sought  to  parry  and  to  distort  wliatever  was  likely  to  en- 
lighten or  vary  the  dark  outline  of  their  traditional  dogmas. 

I left  Perugia  on  a glorious  morning,  and  felt  the  happi- 
ness of  being  once  more  alone.  The  site  of  the  city  is 
beautiful,  and  the  view  of  the  lake  in  the  highest  degree  re- 
freshing. These  scenes  are  deeply  impressed  on  my  memory. 
At  first  the  road  went  downwards,  then  it  entered  a cheerful 
valley  enclosed  on  both  sides  by  distant  hills,  till  at  last 
Assisi  lay  before  us. 

Here,  as  I had  learned  from  Palladio  and  Volckmann,  a 
noble  Temple  of  Minerva,  built  in  the  time  of  Augustus,  was 
still  standing,  in  perfect  repair.  At  Madonna  del  Angelo, 
therefore,  I quitted  my  vetturino,  leaving  him  to  proceed  by 
himself  to  Foligno,  and  set  off,  in  the  face  of  a strong  wind, 
for  Assisi ; for  I longed  for  a foot-jourue}’  through  a couutiy 
so  solitary  for  me.  I left  on  my  left  the  vast  mass  of 
churches,  piled  Babel-wise  one  over  another  (in  one  of  which 
rest  the  remains  of  the  holy  St.  Francis  of  Assisi),  with 
aversion  ; for  I thought  to  myself,  that  the  people  who  assem- 
bled in  them  were  mostly  of  the  same  stamp  as  my  captain 
and  travelling-companion.  Having  asked  of  a good-looking 
youth  the  way  to  the  Della  Mineiwa,  he  accompanied  me  to 
the  top  of  the  town,  for  it  lies  on  the  side  of  a hill.  At 
last  we  reached  what  is  properly  the  old  town ; and.  behold ! 
before  1113-  eyes  stood  the  noble  edifice,  — the  first  complete 
memorial  of  antiquity  that  I had  ever  seen.  A modest  tem- 
ple, as  befitting  so  small  a town,  and  j’et  so  perfect,  so  well 
conceived,  that  anywhere  it  would  be  an  ornament.  More- 
over, in  these  matters,  how  grand  were  the  ancients  in  the 
choice  of  their  sites ! The  temple  stands  about  halfway 
lip  the  mountain,  where  two  hills  meet  on  the  level  place 
which  is  to  this  day  called  the  Piazza.  This  itself  slightly 
rises,  and  is  intersected  by  the  meeting  of  four  roads,  which 
make  a somewhat  dilated  8t.  Andrew’s  cross.  Probably  the 
houses  which  are  now  opposite  the  temple,  and  block  up 
the  view  from  it.  were  not  standing  there  in  ancient  times. 
If  the}'  were  removed , we  should  have  a south  prospect  over 
a rich  and  fertile  countiy,  and  at  the  same  time  the  Temple 
of  Minerva  would  be  visible  from  all  sides.  The  line  of  the 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


169 


roads  is,  in  all  probability,  very  ancient,  since  they  follow 
the  shape  and  inclination  of  the  hill.  The  temple  does  not 
stand  in  the  centre  of  the  flat ; but  its  site  is  so  arranged, 
that  the  traveller  approaching  from  Rome  catches  a fine 
foreshortened  view  of  it.  To  give  an  idea  of  it,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  draw,  not  only  the  building  itself,  but  also  its  happily 
chosen  site. 

Looking  at  the  facade,  I could  not  sufficiently  admire  the 
genius-like  identity  of  design  which  the  architects  have  here 
as  elsewhei’e  maintained.  The  order  is  Corinthian,  the  inter- 
columnar  spaces  being  somewhat  above  two  modules.  The 
bases  of  the  columns  and  the  plinths  seem  to  rest  on  pedes- 
tals, but  it  is  only  an  appearance.  The  socle  is  cut  through 
in  five  places ; and,  at  each  of  these,  five  steps  ascend  be- 
tween the  columns,  and  bring  you  to  a level,  on  which  prop- 
erly the  columns  rest,  and  from  which,  also,  you  enter  the 
temple.  The  bold  idea  of  cutting  through  the  socle  was 
happily  hazarded ; for,  as  the  temple  is  situated  on  a hill, 
the  flight  of  steps  must  otherwise  have  been  carried  up  to 
such  a height  as  would  have  inconveniently  narrowed  the 
area  of  the  temple.  As  it  is,  however,  it  is  impossible  to 
determine  how  many  steps  there  originally  were ; for,  with 
the  exception  of  a very  few,  they  are  all  choked  up  with 
dirt,  or  paved  over.  Most  reluctantly  did  I tear  myself  from 
the  sight,  and  determined  to  call  the  attention  of  architects 
to  this  noble  edifice,  in  order  that  an  accurate  draught  of  it 
may  be  furnished.  For  what  a sorry  thing  tradition  is,  I 
here  again  find  occasion  to  remark.  Palladio,  whom  I trust 
in  every  matter,  gives,  indeed,  a sketch  of  this  temple.  But 
certainly  he  never  can  have  seen  it  himself : for  he  gives  it 
real  pedestals  above  the  area,  by  which  means  the  columns 
appear  disproportionately  high,  and  the  result  is  a sort  of 
unsightly  Palmyrene  monstrosity  ; whereas,  in  fact,  its  look 
is  so  full  of  repose  and  beauty  as  to  satisfy  both  the  eye  and 
the  mind.  The  impression  which  the  sight  of  this  edifice  left 
upon  me  is  not  to  be  expressed,  and  will  bring  forth  imper- 
ishable fruits.  It  was  a beautiful  evening,  and  I now  turned 
to  descend  the  mountain.  As  I was  proceeding  along  the 
Roman  road,  calm  and  composed,  suddenly  I heard  behind 
me  some  rough  voices  in  dispute.  I fancied  that  it  was  only 
the  Sbirri,  whom  I had  previously  noticed  in  the  town.  I 
therefore  went  on  without  care,  but  still  with  my  ears  listen- 
ing to  what  they  might  be  sajung  behind  me.  I soon  became 
aware  tliat  I was  the  object  of  their  remarks.  Four  men  of 


170 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


this  body  (two  of  whom  were  armed  with  guns)  passed  me 
in  the  rudest  way  possible,  muttering  to  each  other,  and,  i 
turning  back  after  a few  steps,  suddenly  surrounded  me. 
They  demanded  my  name,  and  what  I was  doing  there.  I 
said  that  I was  a sti’anger,  and  had  travelled  on  foot  to 
Assisi,  while  my  vetturino  had  gone  on  to  Foligno.  It  ap- 
peared to  them  very  improbable  that  any  one  should  pav 
for  a carriage,  and  yet  travel  on  foot.  They  asked  me  if  1 
had  been  visiting  the  Gran  Convento.  I answered No,” 
but  assured  them  that  I knew  the  building  of  old ; but,  being 
an  architect,  my  chief  object  this  tune  was  simply  to  obtain 
a sight  of  the  Maria  della  Minei’va,  which,  they  must  be 
aware,  was  an  architectural  model.  This  they  could  not  con- 
tradict, but  seemed  to  take  it  very  ill  that  I had  not  paid  a 
visit  to  the  saint,  and  avowed  their  suspicion  that  probably 
my  business  was  to  smuggle  contraband  goods.  I pointed  i 
out  to  them  how  ridiculous  it  was  that  a man  who  walked 
openly  through  the  streets,  alone,  and  without  packs,  and 
Avith  empty  pockets,  should  be  taken  for  a contrabandist. 

However,  upon  this  I offered  to  return  to  the  town  with 
them,  and  to  go  before  the  podestiX.  and,  by  showing  my 
papers,  prove  to  him  that  I was  an  honest  traA’eller.  Upon 
this  they  muttered  together  for  a while,  and  then  expressed  | 
their  opinion  that  it  was  unnecessary ; and,  as  I d3ehaved  j 
throughout  with  coolness  and  gravity,  they  at  last  left  me,  ' 
and  turned  towards  the  town.  I looked  after  them.  As 
these  rude  churls  moved  on  in  the  foreground,  behind  them 
the  beautiful  Temple  of  Minerva  once  more  caught  my  eye 
to  soothe  and  console  me  with  its  sight.  I turned  then  to 
the  left,  to  look  at  the  heavy  Cathedral  of  St.  Francisco,  and 
was  about  to  continue  my  way.  when  one  of  the  unarmed 
Sbirri,  separating  himself  from  the  rest,  came  up  to  me  in  a 
quiet  and  friendly  manner.  Saluting  me,  he  said,  “ Siguior 
stranger,  you  ought  at  least  to  give  me  something  to  drink 
your  health  ; for  I assure  you,  that,  from  the  very  first,  I took 
you  to  be  an  honorable  man,  and  loudly  maintained  this 
opinion  in  opposition  to  my  comrades.  They,  however,  are  | 
hot-headed  and  over-hasty  fellows,  and  haA'e  no  knowledge  j 
of  the  world.  You  yourself  must  have  observed  that  I was  the  ) 
first  to  allow  the  force  of,  and  to  assent  to,  your  remarks.” 

I praised  him  on  this  score,  and  urged  him  to  protect  all  1 
honorable  strangers  who  might  henceforward  come  to  Assisi  i 

for  the  sake  either  of  religion  or  of  art.  and  especially  all  j 

architects  who  might  wish  to  do  honor  to  the  town  by  I 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


171 


measuring  and  sketching  the  Temple  of  Minerva,  since  a 
correct  drawing  or  engraving  of  it  had  never  yet  been  taken. 
If  he  were  to  accompany  them,  they  would,  I assured  them, 
give  him  substantial  proofs  of  their  gratitude  ; and  with  these 
words  I put  into  his  hand  some  silver,  which,  as  exceeding 
his  expectation,  delighted  him  above  measure.  He  begged 
me  to  pay  a second  visit  to  the  town  ; remarking  that  I 
ought  not  on  any  account  to  miss  the  festival  of  the  saint, 
on  which  I might,  with  the  greatest  safety,  delight  and  amuse 
myself.  Indeed  if,  being  a good-looking  fellow,  I should 
wish  to  be  introduced  to  the  fair  sex,  he  assured  me  that  the 
prettiest  and  most  respectable  ladies  would  willinglj-  receive 
me,  or  any  stranger,  upon  his  recommendation.  He  took  his 
leave,  promising  to  remember  me  at  vespers  before  the  tomb 
of  the  saint,  and  to  offer  up  a prayer  for  my  safety  throughout 
my  travels.  Upon  this  we  parted,  and  most  delighted  was  I 
to  be  again  alone  with  nature  and  myself.  The  road  to 
Foligno  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  agreeable  walks 
that  I ever  took.  For  four  full  hours  I walked  along  the  side 
of  a mountain,  having  on  my  left  a richly  cultivated  valley. 

It  is  but  sorry  travelling  with  a vetturino : it  is  always  best 
to  follow  at  one’s  ease  on  foot.  In  this  way  had  I travelled 
from  Ferrara  to  this  place.  As  regards  the  arts  and  mechani- 
cal invention,  on  which,  however,  the  ease  and  comforts  of 
life  mainly  depend,  Italy,  so  highly  favored  b}'  nature,  is 
very  far  behind  all  other  countries.  The  carriage  of  the 
vetturino,  which  is  still  called  “ sedia,”  or  “ seat,”  certaiuly 
took  its  origin  from  the  ancient  litters  drawn  by  mules,  in 
which  females  and  aged  persons,  or  the  highest  dignitaries, 
used  to  be  carried  about.  Instead  of  the  hinder  mule,  on 
whose  3'oke  the  shafts  used  to  rest,  two  wheels  have  been 
placed  beneath  the  carriage,  and  no  further  improvement  has 
been  thought  of.  In  this  way  one  is  still  jolted  along,  just 
as  they  were  centuries  ago.  It  is  the  same  with  their  houses 
and  every  thing  else. 

If  one  wishes  to  see  realized  the  poetic  idea  of  men  in 
primeval  times,  spending  most  of  their  lives  beneath  the  open 
heaven,  and  only  occasionally,  when  compelled  by  necessity, 
retiring  for  shelter  into  the  caves,  he  must  visit  the  houses 
hereabouts,  especially  those  in  the  rural  districts,  which  are 
quite  in  the  style  aucl  fashion  of  caves.  Such  an  incredible 
absence  of  care  do  the  Italians  evince  in  order  not  to  grow 
old  by  thinking.  With  unheard  of  frivolity,  they  neglect  to 
make  any  preparation  for  the  long  nights  of  winter,  aud  in 


172 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


consequence,  for  a considerable  portion  of  the  year,  suffer  like 
dogs.  Here  in  Foligno,  in  the  midst  of  a perfectly  Homeric 
household,  — the  whole  family  being  gathered  together  in 
a large  hall,  round  a fire  on  the  hearth,  with  plenty  of  run- 
ning backward  and  forward,  and  of  scolding  and  shouting, 
while  supper  is  going  on  at  a long  table  like  that  in  the  pic- 
ture of  the  Wedding-Feast  at  Cana,  — I seize  an  opportunity 
of  writing  this,  as  oue  of  tlie  family  has  ordered  an  inkstand 
to  be  brought  me,  — a luxury,  which,  judging  from  other 
circumstances,  I did  not  look  for.  These  pages,  however, 
tell  too  plainly  of  the  cold,  and  of  the  inconvenience  of  my 
writing-table. 

I am  now  made  only  too  sensible  of  the  rashness  of  travel- 
ling in  this  country  without  a servant,  and  without  providing 
one’s  self  well  with  every  necessary.  What  with  the  ever- 
changing  currency,  the  vetturini,  the  extortion,  the  wretched  v 
inns,  one  who,  like  m3'self,  is  travelling  alone  for  the  first  i 
time  in  this  country,  hoping  to  find  uninterrupted  pleasure,  ! 
will  be  sure  to  find  himself  miserably  disappointed  every  day.  i 
However,  I wished  to  see  the  country  at  any  cost ; and.  even 
if  I must  be  dragged  to  Rome  on  Ixion’s  wheel,  I shall  not 
complain. 

Terxi,  Oct.  27, 1786. 

Evening. 

Again  sitting  in  a “ cave,”  which,  only  a j'ear  before,  suf-  • 
fered  from  an  earthquake.  The  little  town  lies  in  the  midst  r ] 
of  a.  rich  country  (for  taking  a circuit  round  the  city  I 
explored  it  with  pleasure),  at  the  begiuniug  of  a beautiful  l||| 
plain  which  lies  between  two  ridges  of  limestone  hills.  M 
Terni,  like  Bologna,  is  situated  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain  i j 
range.  ! 

Almost  ever  since  the  papal  officer  left  me.  I have  had  a :: . 
priest  for  my  companion.  The  latter  appears  better  con-  t 
tented  with  his  profession  than  the  soldier,  and  is  readi'  to 
enlighten  me,  whom  he  very  soon  saw  to  be  a heretic,  by  . i 
answering  anj*  question  I might  put  to  him  concerning  the  '! 
ritual  and  other  matters  of  his  church.  By  thus  mixing  • 
continually  with  new  characters,  I thoroughly  obtain  my 
object.  It  is  absolutely  necessary  to  hear  the  people  talking 
together,  if  you  would  form  a true  and  lively  image  of  the 
whole  couutiy.  The  Italians  are  in  the  strangest  manner 
possible  rivals  and  adversaries  of  each  other.  Every  one  is 
strongl}'  enthusiastic  in  the  praise  of  his  own  town  and  state. 
They  cannot  bear  with  one  another : and,  even  in  the  same  j 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


173 


! city,  the  different  ranks  nourish  perpetual  feuds,  and  aU  this 
' with  a profoundly  vivacious  and  most  obvious  passionate- 
; ness  ; so  that,  while  they  expose  one  another’s  pretensions, 

: they  keep  up  an  amusing  comedy  all  day  long.  And  yet 
' they  are  quick  at  understanding  others,  and  seem  quite  aware 
I how  impossible  it  is  for  a stranger  to  enter  into  their  ways 
I and  thoughts. 

I ascended  to  Spoleto,  and  went  along  the  aqueduct,  which 
! serves  also  for  a bridge  from  one  mountain  to  another.  The 
ten  brick  arches  which  span  the  valley  have  quietly  stood 
there  through  centuries  ; and  the  water  still  flows  into  Spoleto, 
and  reaches  its  remotest  quarters.  This  is  the  third  great 
work  of  the  ancients  that  I have  seen,  and  still  the  same 
grandeur  of  conception.  A second  nature  made  to  work  for 
social  objects,  — such  was  their  architecture.  And  so  arose 
' the  amphitheatre,  the  temple,  and  the  aqueduct.  Now  at 
last  I can  understand  the  justice  of  my  hatred  for  all  arbi- 
:■  trary  caprices,  as,  for  instance,  the  winter  ca^ts  on  white 
stone  — a nothing  about  nothing — a monstrous  piece  of 
1 confectionery  ornament ; and  so  also  with  a thousand  other 
things.  But  all  that  is  now  dead ; for  whatever  does  not 
possess  a true  intrinsic  vitality  cannot  live  long,  and  can 
neither  be  nor  ever  become  great. 

What  entertainment  and  instruction  have  I not  had  cause 
to  be  thankful  for  during  these  eight  last  weeks  ! but  in  fact 
it  has  also  cost  me  some  trouble.  I kept  my  ej’es  continually 
open,  and  strove  to  stamp  deep  on  my  mind  the  images  of 
all  I saw.  That  was  all : judge  of  them  I could  not,  even  if 
it  had  been  in  my  power. 

San  Crocefisso,  a singular  chapel  on  the  roadside,  did  not 
look,  to  my  mind,  like  the  remains  of  a temple  which  had 
once  stood  on  the  same  site.  It  was  evident  that  columns, 
pillars,  and  pediments  had  been  found,  and  incongruously 
put  together,  not  stupidly,  but  madly.  It  does  not  admit  of 
description : however,  there  is  somewhere  or  other  an  en- 
graving of  it. 

And  so  it  may  seem  strange  to  some  that  we  should  go  on 
troubling  ourselves  to  acquire  an  idea  of  antiquity,  although 
we  have  nothing  before  us  but  ruins,  out  of  which  we  must 
first  painfully  reconstruct  the  veiy  thing  we  wish  to  form  an 
idea  of. 

With  what  is  called  “classical  ground”  the  case  stands 
rather  different.  Here,  if  only  we  do  not  go  to  work  fanci- 
; fully,  but  take  the  ground  really  as  it  is,  then  we  shall  have 


174 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


the  decisive  arena  which  moulded  more  or  less  the  greatest  of 
events.  Accordingly  I have  hitherto  activel}'  employed  my  i 
geological  and  agricultural  eye  to  the  suppressing  of  fancy  i 
and  sensibility,  in  order  to  gain  for  myself  an  unbiassed  and 
distinct  notion  of  the  locality.  By  such  means  history  fixes 
itself  on  our  minds  with  a marvellous  vividness,  and  the  effect 
is  utterly  inconceivable  to  another.  It  is  something  of  this 
sort  that  makes  me  feel  so  very  great  a desire  to  read  Tacitus 
in  Rome. 

I must  not,  however,  forget  the  weather.  As  I descended  f 
the  Apennines  from  Bologna,  the  clouds  gradually  retired  | 
towards  the  north ; afterwards  they  changed  their  course,  i 
and  moved  towards  Lake  Trasimene.  Here  they  continued  to  ^ 
hang,  though  perhaps  they  may  have  moved  a little  farther 
southward.  Instead,  therefore,  of  the  great  plain  of  the  Po, 
sending,  as  it  does  during  the  summer,  all  its  clouds  to  the 
Tyrolese  mountains,  it  now  sends  a part  of  them  towards  the 
Apennines : from  thence,  perhaps,  comes  the  rainy  season. 

They  are  now  beginning  to  gather  the  olives.  It  is  done  ; 
here  with  the  hand  : in  other  places  they  are  beat  down  with  | 
sticks.  If  winter  comes  on  before  all  are  gathered,  the  rest 
are  allowed  to  remain  on  the  trees  till  spring.  Yesterday  / 
I noticed  in  a very  strong  soil  the  largest  and  oldest  trees  I ; 
have  ever  yet  seen. 

The  favor  of  the  Muses,  like  that  of  the  demons,  is  not 
always  shown  us  in  a suitable  moment.  Yesterday  I felt 
inspired  to  uudertake  a work  which  aft  present  would  be  ill- 
timed.  Approaching  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  centre  of 
Romanism,  surrounded  bj’  Roman  Catholics,  boxed  up  with 
a priest  in  a sedau,  aud  striving  anxiously  to  observe  and  to 
study  without  prejudice  true  nature  and  noble  art,  I have 
arrived  at  a vivid  conviction  that  all  traces  of  original  Chris- 
tianity are  extinct  here.  Indeed,  while  I tried  to  bring  it 
before  my  mind  in  its  purity,  as  we  see  it  recorded  in  the 
Acts  of  the  Apostles,  I could  not  help  shuddering  to  think 
of  the  shapeless,  not  to  say  grotesque,  mass  of  heathenism 
which  heavily  overlies  its  benign  beginnings.  Accordingly, 
the  Wandering  Jew  again  occurred  to  me  as  having  been 
a witness  of  all  this  wonderful  development  and  envelop- 
ment, and  as  having  lived  to  experience  so  strange  a state 
of  things,  that  Christ  himself,  when  he  shall  come  a second 
time  to  gather  in  his  harvest,  will  be  in  danger  of  being 
crucified  a second  time.  The  legend  “ Veuio  iterum  cruci- 
figi  ” was  to  serve  me  as  the  material  of  this  catastrophe. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


175 


Dreams  of  this  kind  floated  before  me  ; for,  out  of  impa- 
tience to  get  onwards,  I used  to  sleep  in  my  clothes.  And  I 
know  of  nothing  more  beautiful  than  to  wake  before  dawn, 
and,  between  sleeping  and  waking,  to  seat  one’s  self  in  one’s 
car,  and  travel  on  to  meet  the  day. 

CiTTA  Castellaija,  Oct.  28,  1786. 

I will  not  fail  you  this  last  evening.  It  is  not  yet  eight 
o’clock,  and  all  are  already  in  bed  : so  I can  for  a good 
“last  time’’  think  over  wliat  is  gone  by,  and  revel  in  the 
anticipation  of  what  is  so  shortly  to  come.  This  has  been 
throughout  a bright  and  glorious  day,  — the  morning  very 
cold,  the  day  clear  and  warm,  the  evening  somewhat  windy, 
but  very  beautiful. 

It  was  very  late  when  we  set  off  from  Terni ; and  we 
reached  Nai’ni  before  day,  and  so  I did  not  see  the  bridge. 
Valleys  and  lowlands  ; now  near,  now  distant  prospects  ; a 
rich  country,  but  all  of  limestone,  and  not  a trace  of  any 
other  formation. 

Otricoli  is  built  on  an  alluvial  gravel-hill  thrown  up  by  one 
of  the  ancient  inundations.  It  is  built  of  lava  brought  from 
the  other  side  of  the  river. 

As  soon  as  one  is  over  the  bridge,  one  finds  one’s  self  in  a 
volcanic  region,  either  of  real  lava,  or  of  the  native  rock 
changed  by  the  heat  and  by  fusion.  You  ascend  a moun- 
tain, which  you  might  set  down  at  once  for  gray  lava.  It  con- 
tains many  white  crystals  of  the  shape  of  garnets.  The 
causeway  from  the  heights  to  the  Citta  Castellana  is  like- 
wise composed  of  this  stone,  now  worn  extremely  smooth. 

' The  city  is  built  on  a bed  of  volcanic  tufa,  in  which  I thought 
I could  discover  ashes,  pumice-stone,  and  pieces  of  lava. 
The  view  from  the  castle  is  extremely  beautiful.  Soracte 
stands  out  and  alone  in  the  prospect  most  picturesquely.  It 
is  probably  a limestone  mountain  of  the  same  formation  as 
the  Apennines.  The  volcanic  region  is  far  lower  than  the 
Apennines  ; and  it  is  only  the  streams  tearing  through  it  that 
have^formed  out  of  it  hills  and  rocks,  which,  with  their  over- 
hanging ledges  and  other  marked  features  of  the  landscape, 
furnish  most  glorious  objects  for  the  painter. 

; To-morrow  evening  and  I shall  be  in  Rome.  Even  yet  I 
can  scarcely  believe  it  possible.  And,  if  this  wish  is  fulfilled, 
what  shall  I wish  for  afterwards  ? I know  not,  except  it  be 
that  I may  safely  stand  in  my  little  pheasant-loaded  canoe, 
and  may  find  all  my  friends  well,  happy,  and  unchanged. 


176 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


ROME. 


Rome,  Nov.  1, 1786. 

At  last  I can  speak  out,  and  greet  my  friends  with  good  n 
humor.  May  they  pardon  my  secrecy,  and  what  has  been,  : 
as  it  were,  a subterranean  journey  hither.  For  scarcely  to 
myself  did  I venture  to  say  whither  I was  hurrying.  Even 
on  the  road  I often  had  my  fears  ; and  it  was  only  as  I 
passed  under  the  Porta  del  Popolo  that  I felt  certain  of 
reaching  Rome. 

And  now  let  me  also  say  that  a thousand  times,  ay,  at 
all  times,  do  I think  of  3’ou,  in  the  neighborhood  of  these 
objects  which  I never  believed  I should  \isit  alone.  It  was 
only  when  I saw  every  one  bound,  body  and  soul,  fo  the 
north,  and  aU  longing  for  those  countries  utterly  extinct 
among  them,  that  I resolved  to  undertake  the  long,  solitary 
journey,  and  to  seek  that  centre  towards  which  I was  at- 
tracted by  an  irresistible  impulse.  Indeed,  for  the  few  last  i 
years  it  had  become  with  me  a kind  of  disease,  which  could  ( 
only  be  cured  by  the  sight  aud  presence  of  the  absent  object. 
Now,  at  length,  I may  venture  to  confess  the  truth.  It  i 
reached  at  last  such  a height  that  I dui'st  not  look  at  a | 
Latin  book,  or  even  an  engraving  of  Italian  scenery.  The  I 
craving  to  see  this  country  was  over-ripe.  Now  it  is  sat-  i 
isfied.  Friends  and  country  have  once  more  become  right 
dear  to  me,  and  the  return  to  them  is  a wished-for  object ; 
nay,  the  more  ardently  desired,  the  more  firmly  I feel  con- 
vinced that  I bring  with  me  too  many  treasures  for  personal 
enjo}*ment  or  private  use,  but  such  as  through  life  may 
serve  others,  as  weU  as  myself,  for  edification  aud  guidance. 

Rome,  Nov.  1, 1786. 

Well,  at  last  I am  andved  in  this  great  capital  of  the 
world.  If,  fifteen  years  ago,  I could  have  seen  it  in  good 
company,  with  a weU-iuformed  guide,  I should  have  thought 
myself  very  fortunate.  But  as  it  was  to  be  that  I sl^ould 
thus  see  it  alone,  and  with  my  own  eyes,  it  is  well  that  this 
joy  has  fallen  to  my  lot  so  late  in  life. 

Over  the  mountains  of  the  TitoI  I have  as  good  as  flown. 
Verona,  Vicenza,  Padua,  and  Venice  I have  carefully 
looked  at ; hastily  glanced  at  Ferrara,  Cento.  Bologna  ; and 
scarcely  seen  Florence  at  all.  My  anxiety  to  reach  Rome 
was  so  great,  and  it  so  grew  with  me  evei-y  moment,  that 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


177 


to  think  of  stopping  anywhere  was  quite  out  of  the  question. 
Even  in  Florence,  I onl\'  staid  thi’ee  hours.  Now  I am 
here  at  my  ease,  and,  as  it  would  seem,  shall  be  tranquillized 
- for  my  whole  life  ; for  we  may  almost  say  that  a new  life 
' begins  when  a man  once  sees  with  his  own  eyes  all  that 
^ before  he  has  but  partially  heard  or  read  of.  All  the 
dreams  of  my  youth  I now  behold  realized  before  me.  The 
subjects  of  the  first  engravings  I ever  remember  seeing  (sev- 
eral views  of  Rome  were  hung  up  in  an  ante-room  of  my 
father’s  house)  stand  bodily  before  my  sight,  and  all  that 
. I had  long  been  acquainted  with  through  paintings  or  draw- 
ings, engravings  or  woodcuts,  plaster  casts  and  cork  models, 
are  here  collectively  presented  to  my  eye.  Wherever  I go  I 
. find  some  old  acquaintance  in  this  new  world.  It  is  all  just 
as  I had  thought  it,  and  yet  all  is  new.  And  just  the  same 
' might  I remark  of  my  owm  observations  and  my  own  ideas. 
I have  not  gained  any  new  thoughts  ; but  the  older  ones 
have  become  so  defined,  so  vivid,  and  so  coherent,  that  they 

■ may  almost  pass  for  new  ones. 

When  Pygmalion’s  Elisa,  which  he  had  shaped  entirely  in 

■ accordance  with  his  wishes,  and  to  which  he  had  given  as 
much  of  truth  and  nature  as  an  artist  can,  moved  at  last 
towards  him,  and  said,  “It  is  I ! ’’  — how  different  was  the 
living  form  from  the  chiselled  stone  ! 

In  a moral  sense,  too,  how  salutary  it  is  for  me  to  live 
.awhile  among  a wholly  sensual  people,  of  whom  so  much 
has  been  said  and  written,  and  of  whom  every  stranger 
judges  according  to  the  standard  he  brings  with  him.  I can 
.excuse  every  one  who  blames  and  reproaches  them.  They 
stand  too  far  apart  from  us,  and  for  a stranger  to  associate 
with  them  is  difficult  and  expensive. 

Rome,  Nov.  3,  1786. 

One  of  the  chief  motives  with  which  I had  deluded  myself 
for  hurrying  to  Rome  was  the  Festival  of  All-Saints  ; for  I 
^thought  within  myself,  if  Rome  pays  so  much  honor  to  a 
single  saint,  what  will  she  not  show  to  them  all ! But  I was 
under  a mistake.  The  Roman  Church  has  never  been  very 
fond  of  celebrating  with  remarkable  pomp  any  common  fes- 
tival : and  so  she  leaves  every  order  to  celebrate  in  silence 
the  especial  memory  .of  its  own  patron  ; for  the  name  “ festi- 
val,” and  the  day  especially  set  apart  to  each  saint,  is  prop- 
erly the  occasion  when  each  receives  his  highest  commemo- 
■ration. 


178 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


Yesterday,  however,  which  was  the  Festival  of  All-Souls, 
things  went  better  with  me.  This  commemoration  is  kept  l)y 
the  Pope  in  his  private  chapel  on  the  Quirinal.  1 hastened 
with  Tischbein  to  the  Monte  Cavallo.  The  piazza  before  the 
palace  has  something  altogether  singular,  so  irregular  is  it, 
and  yet  so  grand  and  so  beautiful  I I now  cast  eyes  upon  the 
Colossuses  ! Neither  eye  nor  mind  was  large  enough  to  take 
them  in.  Ascending  a broad  flight  of  steps,  we  followed  the 
crowd  through  a splendid  and  spacious  hall.  In  this  ante- 
chamber, directly  opposite  to  the  chapel,  and  in  sight  of  the 
numerous  apartments,  one  feels  somewhat  strange  to  find 
one’s  self  beneath  the  same  roof  with  the  vicar  of  Christ. 

The  office  had  begun.  Pope  and  cardinals  were  already 
in  the  church,  — the  Holy  PAther,  of  a highly  handsome  and 
dignified  form  ; the  cardinals,  of  different  ages  and  figures. 
I was  seized  with  a strange,  longing  desire  that  the  head  of 
the  Church  might  open  his  golden  mouth,  and,  speaking  with 
rapture  of  the  ineffable  bliss  of  the  happj'  soul,  set  us  all.  too, 
in  a rapture.  But  as  I only  saw  him  moving  backward  and 
forward  before  the  altar,  and  turning,  now  to  this  side,  and 
now  to  that,  and  only  muttering  to  himself,  and  conducting 
himself  just  like  a common  parish  priest,  the  original  sin 
of  Protestantism  revived  within  me,  and  the  well-known 
and  ordinary  mass  for  the  dead  had  no  charms  for  me.  P'or 
most  assuredly  Christ  himself — he  who,  in  his  youthful  days 
and  even  as  a child,  excited  men’s  wonder  by  his  oral 
exposition  of  Scripture  — did  never  thus  teach  and  work  in 
silence ; but,  as  we  learn  from  the  Gospels,  he  was  ever 
I’eady  to  utter  his  wise  and  spiritual  words.  What,  I asked 
myself,  w^ould  he  say,  were  he  to  come  in  among  us,  and 
see  his  image  on  earth  thus  mumbling,  and  sailing  backward 
and  forward?  The  “ Venio  iterum  crucifigi  ” again  crossed 
my  mind,  and  I nudged  ray  companion  to  come  out  into  the 
freer  air  of  the  vaulted  and  painted  hall. 

Here  we  found  a crowd  of  persons  attentively  obser\’ing 
the  rich  paintings  ; for  the  Festival  of  All-Souls  is  also  the 
holiday  of  all  the  artists  in  Rome.  Not  only  the  chapel,  but 
the  whole  palace  also,  with  all  its  rooms,  is  for  many  hours 
on  this  day  open  and  free  to  every  one ; no  fees  being 
requii’ed,  and  the  visitors  not  being  liable  to  be  hurried  on 
by  the  chamberlain. 

The  paintings  on  the  walls  engaged  my  attention,  and  I 
now  formed  a new  acquaintance  with  some  excellent  artists 
whose  very  names  had  hitherto  been  almost  unknown  to  me. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


179 


; For  instance,  I now,  for  the  first  time,  learned  to  appreciate 
i and  to  love  the  cheerful  Carlo  Maratti. 

II  But  chiefly  welcome  to  me  were  the  masterpieces  of  the 

i artists  of  whose  style  and  manner  I already  had  some 
impression.  I saw  with  amazement  the  wonderful  Petro- 
i nilla  of  Guercino,  which  was  formerly  in  St.  Peter’s,  where 
p a mosaic  copy  now  stands  in  the  place  of  the  original.  The 
lii  body  of  the  saint  is  lifted  out  of  the  grave ; and  the  same 
person,  just  re-animated,  is  being  received  into  the  heights 
j of  heaven  by  a celestial  youth.  ’Whatever  may  be  alleged 

i against  this  double  action,  the  picture  is  invaluable. 

Still  more  struck  was  I with  a picture  of  Titian’s.  It 
I throws  into  the  shade  all  I have  hitherto  seen.  Whether  my 
|-  eye  is  more  practised,  or  whether  it  is  really  the  most  excel- 
> lent,  I cannot  determine.  An  immense  mass-robe,  stiff  with 
embroidery  and  gold-embossed  figures,  envelops  the  dignified 

!i  frame  of  a bishop.  With  a massive  pastoral  staff  in  his  left 
hand,  he  is  gazing  with  a look  of  rapture  towards  heaven, 
while  he  holds  in  his  right  a book,  out  of  which  he  seems  to 
have  imbibed  the  divine  enthusiasm  with  which  he  is  insi)ired. 

[Behind  him  a beautiful  maiden,  holding  a palm-branch  in  her 
hand,  and  full  of  affectionate  sympathy,  is  looking  over  his 
I shoulder  into  the  open  book.  A grave  old  man  on  the  right 
I stands  quite  close  to  the  book,  but  appears  to  pay  no  atten- 
3 I tion  to  it.  The  key  in  his  hand  suggests  the  possibility  of  his 
S familiar  acquaintance  with  its  contents.  Over  against  this 
■i  group  a naked,  well-made  3’outh,  wounded  with  an  aiTOw, 
I i and  in  chains,  is  looking  straight  before  him,  with  a slight 
I expression  of  resignation  in  his  countenance.  In  the  inter- 
: ! mediate  space  stand  two  monks,  bearing  a cross  and  lilies, 
1 1 and  devoutly  looking  up  to  heaven.  Then  in  the  clear 
■ upper  space  is  a semicircular  wall,  which  encloses  them  all. 
Above  moves  a Madonna  in  highest  glory,  sympathizing 
I with  all  that  passes  below.  The  jmeing,  sprightly  child  on 
her  bosom,  with  a radiant  countenance,  is  holding  out  a 
crown,  and  seems,  indeed,  on  the  point  of  casting  it  down. 
On  both  sides,  angels  are  floating  by,  who  hold  in  their  hands 
crowns  in  abundance.  High  above  all  the  figures,  and  even 
the  triple-rajmd  aureola,  soars  the  celestial  dove,  as  at  once 
the  centre  and  finish  of  the  whole  group. 

We  said  to  ourselves,  “Some  ancient  holy  legend  must 

(have  furnished  the  subject  of  this  picture  in  order  that  these 
various  and  ill-assorted  personages  should  have  been  brought 
together  so  artistically  and  so  significantly.  ’ ’ We  ask  not. 


1 


180 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


however,  why  and  wherefore  : we  take  it  all  for  granted,  and 
only  wonder  at  the  inestimable  piece  of  art.  Less  unintelligi- 
ble, but  still  mysterious,  is  a fresco  of  Guido’s  in  this  chapel,  j 
A virgin,  in  childish  beauty,  loveliness,  and  innocence,  is  j 
seated,  and  quietly  sewing.  Two  angels  stand  by  her  side, 
waiting  to  do  her  service  at  the  slightest  bidding.  Y'outhful 
innocence  and  industry’,  the  beautiful  picture  seems  to  tell 
us,  are  guarded  and  honored  by  the  heavenly  beings.  Xo 
legend  is  wanting  here,  — no  story  needed  to  furnish  an  ex- 
planation. 

Now,  how'ever,  to  cool  a little  my  artistic  enthusiasm,  a 
meiTy  incident  occurred.  I obsen^ed  that  several  of  the  Ger- 
man artists,  who  came  up  to  Tischbein  as  an  old  acquaint- 
ance, after  staring  at  me,  went  then.’  ways  again.  Having 
left  me  for  a few  moments,  one  returned,  and  said,  “We 
have  had  a good  joke.  The  report  that  you  were  in  Rome 
had  spread  among  us,  and  the  attention  of  us  artists  was 
called  to  the  one  unknown  stranger.  Now,  there  was  one  of 
our  body  who  used  for  a long  time  to  assert  that  he  had  met  I 
you,  najq  he  asseverated  he  had  lived  on  very  friendly  I 
terms  with  you,  — a fact  which  we  were  not  so  ready  to 
believe.  However,  we  have  just  called  upon  him  to  look  at  | 
you,  and  solve  our  doubts.  He  at  once  stoutly  denied  that  I 
it  was  3'ou,  and  said  that  in  the  stranger  there  was  not  a 
trace  of  your  person  or  mien.”  So,  then,  at  least,  our 
incognito  is  for  the  moment  secure,  and  will  afford  us  some- 
thing hereafter  to  laugh  at. 

I now'  mixed  at  m3'  ease  with  the  troop  of  artists,  and 
asked  them  who  were  the  painters  of  several  pictures  whose 
style  of  art  was  unknown  to  me.  At  last  I was  particularly 
struck  by  a picture  representing  St.  George  killing  the  di-agon 
and  setting  free  the  virgin.  No  one  could  tell  me  whose  it 
was.  Upon  this,  a little,  modest  man,  who  up  to  this  time 
had  not  opened  his  mouth,  came  forward,  and  told  me  it  was  t 
by  Pordeuoue,  the  Venetian  painter  ; and  that  it  was  one  of 
the  best  of  his  paintings,  and  displa3'ed  all  his  merits.  I 
was  now  well  able  to  explain  why  I liked  it.  The  picture 
pleased  me  because  I possessed  some  knowledge  of  the 
Venetian  school,  and  was  better  able  to  appreciate  the  excel- 
lences of  its  best  masters. 

The  artist,  m3'  informant,  w'as  Heinrich  Meyer,  a Swiss,  who 
for  some  years  had  been  stud3'ing  at  Rome  with  a friend  of  the 
name  of  Rolla,  and  who  had  taken  excellent  drawings  in  Spain 
of  antique  busts,  and  was  w'ell  read  in  the  histor3'  of  art. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


181 


Rome,  Nov.  5,  1786. 

: I have  now  been  hei’e  seven  clays,  and  liave,  by  degrees, 

j formed  in  mj^  mind  a general  idea  of  the  city.  We  go  dili- 
gently backward  and  forward.  While  I am  thus  making 
myself  acquainted  with  the  plan  of  old  and  new  Rome,  view- 
t ing  the  ruins  and  the  buildings,  visiting  this  and  that  villa, 
f‘  the  grandest  and  most  remarkable  objects  are  slowly  and 
i leisurely  contemplated.  I do  but  keep  my  eyes  open,  and 
( see,  and  then  go  and  come  again  ; for  it  is  only  in  Rome  one 
J can  duly  prepare  himself  for  Rome. 

i It  must,  however,  be  confessed  that  it  is  a sad  and  melan- 
: choly  business  to  prick  and  track  out  ancient  Rome  in  new 
i Rome : however,  it  must  be  done,  and  we  may  hope  at  least 
j for  an  incalculable  gratification.  We  meet  with  traces  both 
*of  majesty  and  of  ruin,  which  alike  surpass  all  conception, 
i What  the  barbarians  spared,  the  builders  of  new  Rome  made 
. havoc  of. 

I When  one  thus  beholds  an  object  two  thousand  years  old 
t and  more,  but  so  manifoldly  and  thoroughly  altered  by  the 
il  changes  of  time,  but  sees,  nevertheless,  the  same  soil,  the 
ji  same  mountains,  and  often,  indeed,  the  same  walls  and 
columns,  one  becomes,  as  it  were,  a contemporary  of  the 
j great  counsels  of  fortune  ; and  thus  it  becomes  difficult  for 
{The  observer  to  trace  from  the  beginning  Rome  following 
i Rome,  and  not  only  new  Rome  succeeding  the  old,  but  also 
I the  several  epochs  of  both  old  and  new  in  succession.  I 
endeavor,  first  of  all,  to  groi)e  my  way  alone  through  the 
j obscurer  parts  ; for  this  is  the  onlj^  plan  by  which  one  can 
ji  hope  fully  and  completely  to  turn  to  use  the  excellent  intro- 
, ductory  works  which  have  been  written  from  the  fifteenth 
I century  to  the  present  day.  The  first  artists  and  scholars 
‘ have  occupied  their  whole  lives  with  these  objects. 

I And  this  vastuess  has  a strangely  tranquillizing  effect  upon 
1 you  in  Rome,  while  you  pass  from  place  to  place  in  order  to 
visit  the  most  remarkable  objects.  In  other  places  one  has 
to  search  for  what  is  important : here  one  is  oppressed  and 
borne  down  with  numberless  phenomena.  Wherever  one 
[goes  and  casts  a look  around,  the  eye  is  at, once  struck  with 
i some  landscape,  forms  of  every  kind  and  style ; palaces  and 
ruins,  gardens  and  statuary,  distant  views  of  villas,  cottages 
and  stables,  triumphal  arches  and  columns,  often  crowding 
so  close  together,  that  tliey  might  all  be  sketched  on  a single 
{sheet  of  paper.  He  ought  to  have  a hundred  hands  to  write, 
for  what  can  a single  pen  do  here?  And  besides,  by  the 


182 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


evening  one  is  quite  w^eary  and  exhausted  with  the  day’s 
seeing  and  admiring. 

KojtE,  Nov.  7,  1786. 

But  my  friends  must  pardon  me,  if  in  future  I am  found 
chary  of  words.  During  travel  one  usually  rakes  together 
all  that  he  meets  on  his  way : every  daj'  brings  something 
new,  and  he  then  hastens  to  reflect  upon  and  judge  of  it. 
Here,  however,  we  come  into  a very  great  school  indeed, 
where  every  day  says  so  much,  that  we  cannot  venture  to 
say  any  thing  of  the  day  itself.  Indeed,  people  would  do 
well,  if,  tarrying  here  for  years  together,  they  observed  a 
while  a Pythagorean  silence. 

I am  very  well.  The  weather,  as  the  Romans  say,  is 
brutto.  The  south  wind,  the  sirocco,  is  blowing,  and  bring^ 
with  it  every  day  more  or  less  of  rain.  For  my  part,  I do  not 
find  the  weather  disagreeable  : such  as  it  is,  it  is  warmer  than 
the  rainy  days  of  summer  are  with  us. 

The  more  I become  acquainted  with  Tischbein’s  talents,  as 
well  as  his  principles  and  views  of  art,  the  higher  I appre- 
ciate and  value  them.  He  has  laid  before  me  his  drawings 
and  sketches.  They  have  great  merit,  and  are  full  of  high 
promise.  His  visit  to  Bodmer  led  him  to  fix  his  thoughts 
on  the  infancy  of  the  human  race,  when  man  found  himself 
standing  on  the  earth,  and  had  to  solve  the  problem  how  he 
must  best  fulfil  his  destiny  of  being  the  lord  of  creation. 

As  a suggestive  introduction  to  a series  of  illustrations  of 
this  subject,  he  has  attempted  symbolical!}’  to  vindicate  the 
high  antiquity  of  the  world.  Mountains  overgrown  with 
noble  forests,  ravines  worn  out  by  water-courses,  burnt-out 
volcanoes  still  faintly  smoking.  In  the  foreground  the 
mighty  stock  of  a patriarchal  oak  still  remains  in  the  ground, 
on  whose  half-bared  roots  a deer  is  trying  the  strength  of 
his  horns,  — a conception  as  fine  as  it  is  beautifully  exe- 
cuted. 

In  another  most  remarkable  piece  he  has  painted  man 
yoking  the  horse,  and  by  his  superior  skill,  if  not  strength, 
bringing  all  the  other  creatures  of  the  earth,  the  air,  and  the 
water,  under  his  dominion.  The  composition  is  of  extraordi- 
nary beauty  : when  finished  in  oils,  it  cannot  fail  of  producing 
a great  effect.  A drawing  of  it  must,  at  any  cost,  be  secui-ed 
for  Weimar.  When  this  is  finished,  he  purposes  to  paint  an 
assembly  of  old  men,  aged,  and  experienced  in  council,  in 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


183 


which  he  intends  to  introduee  the  portraits  of  living  person- 
^ ages.  At  present,  however,  he  is  sketching  away  with  the 
greatest  enthusiasm  at  a battle-piece.  Two  bodies  of  cav- 
] airy  are  fighting  with  equal  courage  and  resolution  : between 
them  yawns  an  awful  chasm,  which  but  few  horses  would 
attempt  to  clear.  The  arts  of  defensive  warfare  are  useless 
here.  A wild  resolve,  a bold  attack,  a successful  leap,  or 
else  to  be  hurled  in  the  abyss  below ! This  i^icture  will 
afford  him  an  opportunity  to  display  in  a very  striking 
manner  his  knowledge  of  horses  and  of  their  make  and 
movements. 

Now,  it  is  Tischbeiu’s  wish  to  have  these  sketches  (and  a 
series  of  others  to  follow,  or  to  be  intercalated  between  them) 

I conneeted  together  by  a poem,  whieh  may  serve  to  explain 
I the  drawings,  and,  by  giving  them  a definite  context,  may 
! lend  to  them  both  a body  and  a charm. 

I The  idea  is  beautiful ; only  the  artist  and  the  poet  must  be 
[ many  years  together  in  order  to  carry  out  and  to  execute 
I such  a work. 

\ The  Loggie  of  Raphael,  and  the  great  pictures  of  the 
I School  of  Athens,  etc.,  I have  now  seen  for  the  first  and 
I only  time  ; so  that  for  me  to  judge  of  them  at  present  is  like 
having  to  make  out  and  to  judge  of  Homer  from  some  half- 
! obliterated  and  much-injured  manuscript.  The  gratification 
' of  the  first  impression  is  incomplete  : it  is  only  when  they 
have  been  carefully  studied  and  examined,  one  by  one,  that 
the  enjoyment  becomes  perfect.  The  best  preserved  are  the 
f paintings  on  the  ceilings  of  the  Loggie.  They  are  as  fresh  as 
if  painted  yesterday.  The  subjects  are  symbolical.  Very 
few,  however,  are  by  Raphael’s  own  hand ; but  they  are  ex- 
cellently executed,  after  his  designs  and  under  his  eye. 
j Many  a time,  in  years  past,  did  I entertain  the  strange 
1 whim,  ardently  to  wish  that  I might  one  day  be  taken  to 
I Italy  by  some  well-educated  man,  — by  some  Englishman 
i well  learned  in  art  and  in  history.  And  now  it  has  all  been 
, brought  about  much  better  than  I could  have  anticipated. 

. Tischbein  has  been  living  here  long  as  a sincere  friend  to 
j me,  and  during  his  stay  has  always  cherished  the  wish  of 
j being  able  to  show  me  Rome  one  day.  Our  intimacy  is  old 
j by  letter,  though  new  by  presence.  Where  could  I have  met 
I with  a worthier  guide  ? And,  if  my  time  is  limited,  I will  at 
! least  learn  and  enjoy  as  much  as  possible.  And  yet,  all  this 
■ notwithstanding,  I clearly  foresee,  that,  when  I leave  Rome, 
j I shall  wish  that  I were  coming  to  it. 


184 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


f 


Rosie,  Kov.  8,  1786. 


My  strange  and  perhaps  whimsical  incognito  proves  use-  i 
fill  to  me  in  many  ways  that  I never  should  have  thought  of.  i 
As  every  one  thinks  himself  in  duty  bound  to  ignore  who  I ! 
am,  and  consequentlj^  never  ventures  to  speak  to  me  of  my- 
self and  my  works,  they  have  no  alternative  left  them  but  to 
speak  of  themselves,  or  of  the  matters  in  which  thej’  are  most 
interested  ; and  in  this  way  I become  circumstantially  informed' 
of  the  occupations  of  each,  and  of  every  thing  remarkable  that 
is  either  taken  in  hand  or  produced.  Hofrath  Reiffenstein 
good-naturedly  humors  this  whim  of  mine.  As,  however,  for 
special  reasons,  he  could  not  bear  the  name  I had  assumed,  ^ 
he  immediately  made  a baron  of  me  ; and  I am  now  called  the 
Baron  gegen  Rondanini  tiber  (“  the  baron  who  lives  opposite 
to  the  palace  Rondanini  ”) . Tttis  designation  is  sufficiently 
precise,  especially  as  the  Italians  are  accustomed  to  speak  of  -I 
people  either  by  their  Christian  names,  or  else  bj'  some  nick-  : 
name  : in  short,  I have  gained  my  object ; and  I escape  the  u 
dreadful  annoyance  of  having  to  give  to  evei’ybod}^  an  ac-  \ 
count  of  myself  and  my  works. 


Rome,  Nov.  9, 1786. 

I frequently  stand  still  a moment  to  survey,  as  it  were,  the  : 
heights  I have  already  won.  AVith  much  delight  I look  back 
to  Venice,  that  grand  creation  that  sprang  out  of  the  bosom  i 
of  the  sea,  like  Minerva  out  of  the  head  of  Jupiter.  In  Rome  i 
the  Rotunda,  both  by  its  exterior  and  interior,  has  moved  me  ! 
to  offer  a willing  homage  to  its  magnificence.  In  St.  Peter’s 
I learned  to  understand  how  art,  no  less  than  nature,  anni- 
hilates the  artificial  measures  and  dimensions  of  man.  And 
in  the  same  way  the  Apollo  Belvedere  also  has  again  drawn 
me  out  of  realit3'.  For,  as  even  the  most  coixect  engravings 
furnish  no  adequate  idea  of  these  buildings,  so  the  case  is 
the  same  with  respect  to  the  marble  original  of  this  statue 
as  compared  with  the  plaster  models  of  it,  which,  however, 

I foiTuerly  used  to  look  upon  as  beautiful. 

Rome,  Nov.  10, 1786. 

Here  I am  now  living  with  a calmness  and  tranquillity  to 
which  I have  for  a long  while  been  a stranger.  My  practice 
to  see  and  take  all  things  as  they  are,  my  fidelity  in  letting 
the  eye  be  my  light,  my  perfect  renunciation  of  all  preten- 
sion, have  again  come  to  my  aid,  and  make  me  calmly  but 
most  intensely  happ3%  Every  daj*  has  its  fresh,  remai'kable 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


185 


object ; every  day  its  new,  grand,  unequalled  paintings,  and 
a whole  which  a man  may  long  think  of  and  dream  of,  but 
which,  with  all  his  power  of  imagination,  he  can  never 
reach. 

Yesterday  I was  at  the  Pyramid  of  Cestius,  and  in  the 
evening  on  the  Palatine,  on  the  top  of  which  are  the  ruins 
of  the  Palace  of  the  Caesars,  which  stand  there  like  walls  of 
rock.  Of  all  this,  however,  no  idea  can  be  conveyed.  In 
truth,  there  is  nothing  little  here,  although,  indeed,  occa- 
sionally something  to  find  fault  with,  — something  more  or 
less  absurd  in  taste  ; and  yet  even  this  partakes  of  the  uni- 
versal grandeur  of  all  around. 

When,  however,  I return  to  myself,  as  every  one  so  readi- 
ly does  on  all  occasions,  I discover  within  me  a feeling  which 
affords  me  infinite  delight,  which,  indeed,  I even  venture  to 
express.  Whoever  here  looks  around  with  earnestness,  and 
has  eyes  to  see,  must  become  in  a measure  solid : he  can- 
not but  apprehend  an  idea  of  solidity  with  a vividness  which 
is  nowhere  else  possible. 

The  mind  becomes,  as  it  were,  primed  with  capacit}',  with 
an  earnestness  without  severity,  and  with  a definiteness  of 
character  with  joy.  With  me,  at  least,  it  seems  as  if  I had 
never  before  so  rightly  estimated  the  things  of  the  world  as 
I do  here.  I rejoice  when  I think  of  the  blessed  effects  of 
all  this  on  the  whole  of  my  future  being.  And,  let  me  jum- 
ble together  the  things  as  I may,  order  will  somehow  come 
into  them.  I am  not  here  to  enjoy  myself  after  my  own 
fashion,  but  to  busy  myself  with  the  great  objects  around, 
to  learn,  and  to  improve  myself  ere  I am  forty  years  old. 

Rome,  Nov.  11, 1786. 

Yesterday  I visited  the  nymph  ^geria,  and  then  the  Hip- 
podrome of  Caracalla,  the  ruined  tombs  along  the  Via  Appia, 
and  the  tomb  of  Metella,  which  is  the  first  to  give  one  a true 
idea  of  what  solid  masonry  really  is.  These  men  worked 
for  eternity.  All  causes  of  decay  were  calculated,  except 
the  rage  of  the  spoiler,  which  nothing  can  resist.  Right  heart- 
ily did  I wish  you  had  been  there.  The  remains  of  the 
principal  aqueduct  are  highly  venerable.  How  beautiful  and 
grand  a design,  — to  supply  a whole  people  with  water  by  so 
vast  a structure  ! In  the  evening  we  came  upon  the  Coli- 
seum, when  it  was  already  twilight.  When  one  looks  at  it, 
all  else  seems  little.  The  edifice  is-so  vast,  that  one  cannot 
hold  the  image  of  it  in  one’s  soul : in  memory  we  think  it 


186 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


smaller,  and  tlien  return  to  it  again  to  find  it  every  time 
greater  than  before. 


Fkascati,  Ifov.  15.  I 

The  company  are  all  in  bed,  and  I am  vriting  vith  Indian- 
ink,  which  they  use  for  drawing.  We  have  had  two  beau- 
tiful days,  without  rain,  warm  and  genial  sunshine  ; so  that 
summer  is  scarcely  missed.  The  country  around  is  I'eiy 
pleasant.  The  village  lies  on  the  side  of  a hill,  or  rather  of 
a mountain ; and  at  every  step  the  draughtsman  comes  upon 
the  most  glorious  objects.  The  prospect  is  unbounded. 
Rome  lies  before  j'ou ; and  be3’oud  it,  on  the  right,  is  the 
sea,  the  mountains  of  Tivoli,  and  so  on.  In  this  delight- 
ful region,  country  houses  are  built  express!}’  for  pleasure ; 
and,  as  the  ancient  Romans  had  here  their  villas,  so,  for  cen- 
turies past,  their  rich  and  haughty  successors  have  planted  . 
countiy  residences  on  all  the  loveliest  spots.  For  two  days 
we  have  been  wandering  about  here,  and  almost  eveiy  step  j 
has  brought  us  upon  something  new  and  attractive.  | 

And  yet  it  is  hard  to  say  whether  the  evenings  have  not 
passed  still  more  agreeablj’  than  the  days.  As  soon  as  our  | 
stately  hostess  has  placed  on  the  round  table  the  bronzed  i 
lamp  with  its  three  wicks,  and  wished  us  felicisshnanotte, 
we  all  form  a circle  round  it ; and  the  views  are  produced 
which  have  been  drawn  and  sketched  during  the  da}’.  Their 
merits  are  discussed,  opinions  are  taken  whether  the  objects 
might  or  not  have  been  taken  more  favorably,  whether  their  ' 
true  characters  have  been  caught,  and  whether  all  requisi- 
tions of  a like  general  nature,  which  may  justly  be  looked 
for  in  a first  sketch,  have  been  fulfilled. 

Hofrath  Reiffensteiu,  by  his  judgment  and  authority,  con- 
trives to  give  order  to,  and  to  conduct,  these  sittings.  But 
the  merit  of  this  delightful  arrangement  is  due  to  Philipp  i 
Hackert,  who  has  a most  excellent  taste,  both  in  drawing 
and  finishing  views  from  nature.  Artists  and  dilettanti, 
men  and  women,  old  and  young,  — he  would  let  no  one  rest, 
but  stimulated  every  one  to  make  the  attempt,  at  any  rate, 
according  to  their  gifts  and  powers,  and  led  the  way  with 
his  own  good  example.  The  little  society  thus  oollected 
, and  held  together,  Hofrath  Reiffensteiu  has,  after  the  depart- 
ure of  his  friend,  faithfully  kept  up  ; and  we  all  feel  a lau- 
dable desire  to  awake  in  every  one  an  active  participation. 

The  peculiar  turn  and  character  of  each  member  of  the  so- 
ciety are  thus  shown  in  a most  agreeable  way.  For  instance, 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


187 


Tischbein,  being  an  historical  painter,  views  sceneiy  quite 
otherwise  than  the  landscape-painter.  He  sees  significant 
groups,  and  other  graceful  speaking  objects,  where  another 
can  see  nothing ; and  so  he  happily  contrives  to  catch  up 
many  a naive  trait  of  humauity,  — it  may  be  in  children, 
peasants,  mendicants,  or  other  such  beings  of  nature,  or 
even  in  animals,  which,  with  a few  characteristic  touches,  he 
skilfully  manages  to  portraj',  and  thereby  contributes  much 
new  and  agreeable  matter  for  our  discussious. 

When  conversation  is  exhausted,  some  one  also,  by  Hack- 
ert’s  direction,  reads  aloud  Sulzer’s  Theory ; for  although, 
from  a high  point  of  view,  it  is  impossible  to  rest  contented 
with  this  work,  nevertheless,  as  some  one  observed,  it  is  so 
far  satisfactory  as  it  is  calculated  to  exercise  a favorable 
influence  on  minds  less  highly  cultivated. 

Rome,  Nov.  17,  1786. 

We  are  back  again.  During  the  night  it  rained  in  tor- 
rents amidst  thunder  and  lightning  : it  still  goes  on  raining, 
but  is  very  warm  withal. 

As  regards  myself,  however,  it  is  only  with  few  words 
that  I can  indicate  the  happiness  of  this  day.  I have  seen 
the  frescos  of  Domenichino,  in  Andrea  della  Valle,  and  also 
the  Farnese  Gallery  of  Caraccios.  Too  much,  forsooth, 
for  months  ! — what,  then,  for  a single  day  ? 

Rome,  Nov.  18,  1786. 

It  is  again  beautiful  weather,  — a bright,  genial,  warm  day. 
I saw  in  the  Farnesine  Palace  the  stoiy  of  Psyche,  colored 
copies  of  which  have  so  long  adorned  in}’  room,  and  then  at 
St.  Peter’s,  in  Montorio,  the  Transfiguration  by  Raphael,  — 
all  well-known  paintings,  like  friends  one  has  made  at  a 
distance  by  means  of  letters,  and  sees  for  the  first  time  face 
to  face.  To  live  with  them,  is,  however,  something  quite 
different.  Every  genuine  friendship  and  its  opposite  becomes 
immediately  evident. 

Moreover,  there  are  to  be  met  with  in  every  spot  and  cor- 
ner glorious  things  of  which  less  has  been  said,  and  which 
have  not  been  scattered  over  the  woild  by  engravings  and 
copies.  Of  these  I shall  bring  away  with  me  many  a draw- 
ing from  the  hands  of  young  but  excellent  artists. 

The  fact  that  I have  long  maintained  a coii’espoudence 
with  Tischbein,  and  consequently  been  on  the  best  possible 
terms  with  him,  and  that,  even  when  I had  no  hope  of  ever 


188 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


visiting  Italy,  I had  communicated  to  him  my  wishes,  has 
made  our  meeting  most  profitable  and  delightful.  He  has 
always  beeu  tliiukiug  of  me,  even  providing  for  my  wants. 
With  the  varieties  of  stoue  of  which  all  the  great  edifices, 
whether  old  or  new,  are  built,  he  has  made  himself  perfectly 
acquainted.  He  has  thoroughly  studied  them,  and  these 
studies  have  beeu  greatly  helped  by  his  artistic  eye  and  the 
artist’s  pleasure  in  sensible  things.  Just  before  my  arrival, 
he  sent  off  to  Weimar  a collection  of  specimens  which  he 
had  selected  for  me,  and  which  I expect  will  give  me  a 
friendly  welcome  on  my  return. 

An  ecclesiastic  who  is  now  residing  in  France,  and  had 
in  contemplation  to  write  a work  on  the  ancient  marbles, 
received  through  the  influence  of  the  Propaganda  some  large 
pieces  of  marble  from  the  Island  of  Paros.  When  they 
arrived  here,  they  were  cut  up  for  specimens  ; and  twelve 
different  pieces,  from  the  finest  to  the  coarsest  grain,  were 
reserved  for  me.  Some  were  of  the  greatest  purity,  while 
others  are  more  or  less  mingled  with  mica ; the  former  being 
used  for  statuary,  the  latter  for  architecture.  How  much 
an  accurate  knowledge  of  the  material  employed  in  the  arts 
must  contribute  to  a right  estimate  of  them,  must  be  obvious 
to  every  one. 

There  are  opportunities  enough  here  for  my  collecting 
many  more  specimens.  In  our  way  to  the  ruins  of  Nero’s 
Palace,  we  passed  through  some  artichoke  grounds  uewly 
turned  up,  and  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  cram  our 
pockets  full  of  the  granite,  porphyry,  and  marble  slabs 
which  lie  here  by  thousands,  and  serve  as  unfailing  wit- 
nesses to  the  ancient  splendor  of  the  walls  which  were  once 
covered  with  them. 


Rome,  Nov.  18, 1786. 

I must  now  speak  of  a wonderful  problematical  picture, 
which,  even  in  the  midst  of  the  many  gems  here,  still  makes 
a good  show  of  its  own. 

F"or  many  years  there  had  been  residing  here  a French- 
man, well  known  as  an  admirer  of  the  arts,  and  a collector. 
He  had  got  hold  of  an  antique  drawing  in  chalk,  no  one 
knows  how  or  whence.  He  had  it  retouched  by  Mengs, 
and  kept  it  in  his  collection  as  a work  of  very  great  value. 
Winckelmann  somewhere  speaks  of  it  with  enthusiasm.  The 
Frenchman  died,  and  left  the  picture  to  his  hostess  as  an 
antique.  Mengs,  too,  died,  and  declared  on  his  death-bed 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


189 


that  it  was  not  an  antique,  but  had  been  painted  by  himself. 
And  now  the  whole  world  is  divided  in  opinion  ; some  main- 
; taining  that  Mengs  had  one  day,  in  joke,  dashed  it  off  with 
much  facility  ; others  asserting  that  Mengs  could  never  do 
! any  thing  like  it,  iudee,d,  that  it  is  almost  too  beautiful  for 
Raphael.  I saw  it  yesterday,  and  must  confess  that  I do 
not  know  any  thing  more  beautiful  than  the  figure  of  Gany- 
I mede,  especially  the  head  and  shoulders : the  rest  has  been 
I much  renovated.  However,  the  painting  is  in  ill  repute, 

; and  no  one  will  relieve  the  poor  landlady  of  her  treasure. 

^ Rome,  Nov.  20,  1786. 

As  experience  fully  teaches  us  that  there  is  a general 
r pleasure  in  having  poems,  whatever  may  be  their  subject, 
illustrated  with  drawings  and  engravings,  nay,  that  the 
painter  himself  usually  selects  a passage  of  some  poet  or 
other  for  the  subject  of  his  most  elaborate  paintings,  Tisch- 
bein’s  idea  is  deserving  of  approbation,  that  poets  and  paint- 
ers should  work  together  from  the  very  first  in  order  to 
1 secure  a perfect  unity.  The  difficulty  would  assuredly  be 
j:  greatly  lessened,  if  it  were  applied  to  little  pieces,  such  as 
I that  the  whole  design  would  easily  admit  of  being  taken  in 
! at  once  by  the  mind,  and  worked  out  consistently  with  the 
original  plan. 

Tischbein  has  suggested  for  such  common  labors  some 
very  delightful  idyllic  thoughts  ; and  it  is  really  singular, 
that  those  he  wishes  to  see  executed  in  this  way  are  really 
such  as  neither  poetry  nor  painting  alone  could  ever  ade- 
I quately  describe.  During  our  walks  together  he  has  talked 
with  me  about  them,  in  the  hopes  of  gaining  me  over  to  his 
views,  and  getting  me  to  enter  upon  the  plan.  The  frontis- 
piece for  such  a joint  work  is  already  designed ; and,  did  I 
not  fear  to  enter  upon  any  new  tasks  at  present,  I might 
perhaps  be  tempted. 

Rome,  Nov.  22,  1786. 

The  Feast  of  St.  Cecilia. 

The  morning  of  this  happy  day  I must  endeavor  to  per- 
petuate by  a few  lines,  and,  at  least  by  description,  to  impart 
to  others  what  I have  myself  enjoyed.  The  weather  has 
been  beautiful  and  calm,  quite  a bright  sky,  and  a warm 
sun.  Accompanied  by  Tischbein,  I set  off  for  the  Piazza 
of  St.  Peter’s,  where  we  went  about,  first  of  all,  from  one 
part  to  another  ; when  it  became  too  hot  for  that,  walked  up 
I and  down  in  the  shade  of  the  great  obelisk  (which  is  full 


190 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


wide  enough  for  two  abreast) , and  eating  grapes,  which  we 
purchased  in  the  neighborhood.  Then  we  entered  the  Sis- 
tine  Chapel,  which  we  found  bright  and  cheerful,  and  with 
a good  light  for  the  pictures.  The  Last  Judgment  di- 
vided our  admiration  with  the  paintings  on  the  roof  by 
Michael  Angelo.  I could  only  see  and  wonder.  The  men- 
tal confidence  and  boldness  of  the  master,  and  his  grandeur 
of  ‘conception,  are  be^mnd  all  expression.  After  we  had 
looked  at  all  of  them  over  and  over  again,  we  left  this  sacred 
building,  and  went  to  St.  Peter’s,  which  received  from  the 
bright  heavens  the  loveliest  light  possible,  and  every  part  of 
it  was  clearly  lighted  up.  As  men  willing  to  be  pleased,  we 
were  delighted  with  its  vastness  and  splendor,  and  did  not 
allow  an  over  nice  or  hj^percritical  taste  to  mar  our  pleasure. 
We  suppressed  every  harsher  judgment:  we  enjoyed  the 
enjoyable. 

Lastly  we  ascended  the  roof  of  the  church,  where  one 
finds,  in  little,  the  plan  of  a well-built  city,  — houses  and 
magazines,  springs  (in  appearance,  at  least),  churches,  and 
a great  temple,  all  in  the  air,  and  beautiful  walks  between. 
We  mounted  the  dome,  and  saw  glistening  before  us  the 
regions  of  the  Apennines,  Soracte,  and,  towards  Tivoli,  the 
volcanic  hills, — Frascati,  Castel-gandolfo,  and  the  plains, 
and,  be^mnd  all,  the  sea.  Close  at  our  feet  lay  the  whole 
city  of  Rome  in  its  length  and  breadth,  with  its  mountain 
palaces,  domes,  etc.  Not  a breath  of  air  was  moving,  and 
in  the  upper  dome  it  was  (as  they  say)  like  being  in  a hot- 
house. When  we  had  looked  enough  at  these  things,  we 
went  down,  and  they  opened  for  us  the  doors  in  the  cornices 
of  the  dome,  the  tympanum,  and  the  nave.  There  is  a pas- 
sage all  round,  and  from  above  you  can  take  a view  of  the 
whole  church  and  of  its  several  parts.  As  we  stood  on 
the  cornices  of  the  tympanum,  we  saw  beneath  us  the  Pope, 
passing  to  his  mid-day  devotions.  Nothing,  therefore,  was 
wanting  to  make  our  view  of  St.  Peter’s  perfect.  M e at 
last  descended  to  the  area,  and  took,  in  a neighboring  hotel, 
a cheerful  but  frugal  meal,  and  then  set  off  for  St.  Cecilia’s. 

It  would  take  many  words  to  describe  the  decorations  of 
this  church,  which  was  crammed  full  of  people.  Not  a stone 
of  the  edifice  was  to  be  seen.  The  pillars  were  covered  with 
red  velvet  wound  round  with  gold  lace  : the  capitals  were 
overlaid  with  embroidered  velvet,  so  as  to  retain  somewhat 
of  the  appearance  of  capitals  ; and  all  the  cornices  and  pil- 
lars were  in  like  manner  covered  with  hangings.  All  the 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


191 


i entablatures  of  the  walls  were  also  covered  with  life-like 
' paintings,  so  that  the  whole  church  seemed  to  be  laid  out  in 
' mosaic.  Around  in  the  church,  and  on  the  high  altar,  more 
than  two  hundred  wax  tapers  were  burning.  It  looked  like 
a wall  of  lights,  and  the  whole  nave  was  perfectly  lit  up. 
The  aisles  and  side-altars  were  equally  adorned  and  illumi- 
nated. Right  opposite  the  high  altar,  and  under  the  organ, 
two  scaffolds  were  erected,  which  also  were  covered  with 
velvet,  on  one  of  which  were  placed  the  singers,  and  on  the 
other  the  instruments,  which  kepi  up  one  unbroken  strain  of 
music.  The  church  was  crammed  full. 

I have  heard  an  excellent  kind  of  musical  accompaniment. 
Just  as  there  are  concerts  of  violins,  or  of  other  instruments, 
so  here  they  had  concerts  of  voices  ; so  that  one  voice  — the 
soprano,  for  instance  — predominates,  and  sings  solo,  while 
from  time  to  time  the  chorus  of  other  voices  falls  in,  and 
accompanies  it,  always,  of  course,  with  the  whole  orchestra. 
It  has  a good  effect.  I must  end,  as  we,  in  fact,  ended  the 
day.  In  the  evening  we  came  upon  the  opera,  where  no 
less  a piece  than  ‘ ‘ I Litiganti  ’ ’ was  then  performed ; but 
we  had  all  the  day  enjoyed  so  much  of  excellence,  that 
, we  passed  by  the  door. 

Eome,  Nov.  23, 1786. 

j In  order  that  it  may  not  be  the  same  with  my  dear  incog- 
‘ nito  as  with  the  ostrich,  which  thinks  itself  to  be  concealed 
when  it  has  hid  his  head,  so,  in  certain  cases,  I give  it  up, 
still  maintaining,  however,  my  old  thesis.  I had,  without 
hesitation,  paid  a visit  of  compliment  to  the  Prince  vou 
Lichtenstein,  the  brother  of  my  much  esteemed  friend  the 
Countess  Harrach,  aud  occasionally  dined  with  him  ; and  I 
soon  perceived  that  my  good-nature  in  this  instance  was 
likely  to  lead  me  much  farther.  They  began  to  feel  their 
way,  and  to  talk  to  me  of  the  Abbe  Monti,  and  of  his 
tragedy  of  “ Aristodemus,”  which  is  shortly  to  be  brought 
out  on  the  stage.  The  author,  it  was  said,  wished,  above  all 
things,  to  read  it  to  me,  and  to  hear  my  opinion  of  it.  I 
contrived,  however,  to  let  the  matter  drop  without  positively 
refusing : at  last,  however,  I met  the  poet  and  some  of  his 
friends  at  the  prince’s  house,  and  the  play  was  read  aloud. 

The  hero  is,  as  is  well  known,  the  king  of  Sparta,  who,  by 
various  scruples  of  conscience,  was  driven  to  commit  suicide. 
Prettily  enough  they  contrived  to  intimate  to  me  their  hope 
; that  the  author  of  “Werther”  would  not  take  it  ill  if  he 


192 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


found  some  of  the  rare  passages  of  his  own  work  made  use  ; 
of  in  this  drama.  And  so,  even  before  the  walls  of  Sparta, 

I cannot  escape  from  this  unhapp}^  youth. 

The  piece  has  a very  simple  and  calm  movement.  The  I 
sentiments,  as  well  as  the  language,  are  well  suited  to  the  I 
subject,  — full  of  energy,  and  j^et  of  tenderness.  The  work  i 
is  a proof  of  very  fair  talents. 

I failed  not,  according  to  my  fashion  (not,  indeed,  after 
the  Italian  fashion),  to  point  out,  and  to  dwell  upon,  all  the  I 
excellencies  and  merits  of  the  play,  with  which,  indeed,  all  i 
present  were  tolerably  satisfied,  though  still  with  Southern  ] 
impatience  they  seemed  to  require  something  more.  I even  ■ 
ventured  to  predict  what  effect  it  was  to  be  hoped  the  play 
would  have  from  the  public.  In  excuse  I pleaded  my  igno- 
rance of  the  country,  its  way  of  thinking  and  tastes ; but 
was  candid  enough  to  add,  that  I did  not  clearly  see  how, 
with  their  vitiated  taste,  the  Romans,  who  were  accustomed 
to  see  as  an  interlude  either  a complete  comedy  of  three  acts 
or  an  opera  of  two,  or  could  not  sit  out  a grand  opera  with- 
out the  intermezzo  of  wholly  foreign  ballets,  could  ever  take 
delight  in  the  calm,  noble  movement  of  a regular  tragedy. 
Then,  again,  the  subject  of  a suicide  seemed  to  me  to  be 
altogether  out  of  the  pale  of  an  Italian’s  ideas.  That  they 
stabbed  men  to  death,  I knew  by  daily  report  of  such  events ; 
but  that  any  one  should  deprive  himself  of  his  own  precious 
existence,  or  even  hold  it  possible  for  another  to  do  so.  — of 
that  no  trace  or  sj-mptom  had  ever  been  brought  under  my 
notice. 

I then  allowed  myself  to  be  circumstantially  enlightened 
as  to  all  that  might  be  urged  in  answer  to  my  objections,  and 
readily  3'ielded  to  their  plausible  arguments.  I also  assured 
them  I wished  for  nothing  so  much  as  to  see  the  play  acted, 
and  with  a band  of  friends  to  welcome  it  with  the  most 
downright  and  loudest  applause.  Tliis  assurance  was  re- 
ceived in  the  most  friendl}’  manner,  and  I had  this  time  at 
least  no  cause  to  be  dissatisfied  with  my  compliance : for 
indeed  Prince  Lichtenstein  is  politeness  itself,  and  found 
opportunity  for  my  seeing  in  his  company  many  precious 
works  of  art.  a sight  of  which  is  not  easily  obtained  without 
special  permission,  and  for  which,  consequently,  high  influ- 
ence is  indispensable.  On  the  other  hand,  my  good  humor 
failed  me  when  the  daughter  of  the  Pretender  expressed  a 
wish  to  see  the  foreign  marmoset.  I declined  the  honor,  and 
once  more  completely  skrouded  myself  beneath  my  disguise. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


193 


But  still  that  is  not  altogether  the  right  way  ; and  I here 
feel  most  vividly  what  I have  often  before  observed  in  life, 
that  the  man  who  strives  after  that  which  is  good  must  be  as 
much  on  the  alert  and  as  active  with  regard  to  others  as  the 
selfish,  the  mean,  and  the  wicked.  It  is  easy  to  see  this,  but 
it  is  extremely  difficult  to  act  in  the  spirit  of  it. 

Kov.  24,  1786. 

Of  the  people  I can  say  nothing  more  than  that  they  are 
fine  children  of  nature,  who,  amidst  pomp  and  honors  of  all 
kinds,  religion,  and  the  arts,  are  not  one  jot  different  from 
what  they  would  be  in  caves  and  forests.  What  strikes  the 
stranger  most,  and  what  to-day  is  making  the  whole  city 
talk,  but  only  talk^  is  the  common  occurrence  of  assassina- 
tion. To-day  the  victim  has  been  an  excellent  artist  — 
Schwendemann,  a Swiss,  a medallionist.  The  particulars  of 
his  death  greatly  resemble  those -of  Windischmann’s.  The 
assassin  with  whom  he  was  struggling  gave  him  twenty 
stabs  ; and,  as  the  watch  came  up,  the  villain  stabbed  himself. 
This  is  not  generally  the  fashion  here  : the  murderer  usually 
makes  for  the  nearest  church  ; and  once  there,  he  is  quite 
safe. 

And  now,  in  order  to  shade  my  picture  a little,  I might 
bring  into  it  crimes  and  disorders,  earthquakes  and  inunda- 
tions of  all  kinds,  but  for  an  eruption  of  Vesuvius  which 
has  just  broken  out,  and  has  set  almost  all  the  visitors  here 
in  motion  ; and  one  must,  indeed,  possess  a rare  amount  of 
self-control,  not  to  be  carried  away  by  the  crowd.  Really 
this  phenomenon  of  nature  has  in  it  something  of  a resem- 
blance to  the  rattlesnake,  for  its  attraction  is  irresistible. 
At  this  moment  it  almost  seems  as  if  all  the  treasures  of  art 
in  Rome  were  annihilated : every  stranger,  without  excep- 
tion, has  broken  off  the  current  of  his  contemplations,  and  is 
hurrying  to  Naples.  I,  however,  shall  stay,  in  the  hope  that 
the  mountain  will  have  a little  eruption  expressly  for  my 
amusement. 

. Rome,  Dec.  1,  1786. 

Moritz  is  here,  who  has  made  himself  famous  by  his 
“Anthony,  the  Traveller  {Anton  Reiser),  and  his  “ Wander- 
ings in  England  ” {Wanderungen  nacli  England).  He  is  a 
right-down  excellent  man,  and  we  have  been  greatly  pleased 
with  him. 


194 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


Rome,  Dec.  1,  1786. 

Here  in  Rome,  where  one  sees  so  many  strangers,  all  of 
whom  do  not  visit  this  capital  of  the  world  merely  for  the 
sake  of  the  fine  arts,  but  also  for  amusements  of  every  kind, 
the  people  are  prepared  for  every  thing.  Accordingly,  they 
have  invented  and  attained  great  excellence  in  ceitain  half 
arts  which  require  for  their  pursuit  little  more  than  manual 
skill  and  pleasure  in  such  handiwork,  and  which  consequently 
attract  the  interest  of  ordinary  visitors. 

Among  these  is  the  art  of  painting  in  wax.  Requiring 
little  more  than  tolerable  skill  in  water-coloring,  it  serves  as 
an  amusement  to  employ  one’s  time  in  preparing  and  adapt- 
ing the  wax,  and  then  in  burning  it,  and  in  such  like  me- 
chanical labors.  Skilful  artists  give  lessons  in  the  art,  and, 
under  the  pretext  of  showing  their  pupils  how  to  perform 
their  tasks,  do  the  chief  part  of  the  work  themselves  ; so  that 
when  at  last  the  figure  stands  out  in  bright  relief  in  the 
gilded  frame,  the  fair  disciple  is  ravished  with  the  proof  of  | 
her  unconscious  talent. 

Another  pretty  occupation  is,  with  a very  fine  clay  to 
take  impressions  of  cameos  cut  in  deep  relief.  This  is  also 
done  in  the  case  of  medallions,  both  sides  of  which  are  thus 
copied  at  once.  More  tact,  attention,  and  diligence  is  re- 
quired, lastly,  for  preparation  of  the  glass-paste  for  mock 
jewels.  For  all  these  things  Hofrath  Reiffenstein  has  the 
necessary  workshops  and  laboratories,  either  in  his  house  or 
close  at  hand. 

Dec.  2,  1786. 

I have  accidentally  found  here  Anhenholtz’s  “ Italy.”  A 
work  written  on  the  spot,  in  so  contracted  and  narrow- 
minded a spirit  as  this,  is  just  as  if  one  were  to  lay  a book 
purposely'  on  the  coals  in  order  that  it  might  be  browned 
and  blackened,  and  its  leaves  curled  up  and  disfigured  with 
smoke.  No  doubt  he  has  seen  all  that  he  writes  about,  but 
he  possesses  far  too  little  of  real  knowledge  to  support  his 
high  pretensions  and  sneering  tone  ; and  whether  he  praises 
or  blames,  he  is  always  in  the  wrong. 

Dec.  2,  1786. 

Such  beautiful  warm  and  quiet  weather  at  the  end  of 
November  (which,  however,  is  often  broken  by  a day’s  rain), 
is  quite  new  to  me.  We  spend  the  fine  days  in  the  open  air. 
the  bad  in  our  room  : everywhere  there  is  something  to  learn 
and  to  do,  something  to  be  delighted  with. 


I.ETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


195 


On  the  28th  we  paid  a second  visit  to  the  Sistine  Chapei, 
and  had  the  galleries  opened,  in  order  that  we  might  obtain 
a nearer  view  of  the  ceiling.  As  the  galleries  are  very  nar- 
row, it  is  only  with  great  difficulty  that  one  forces  his  way 
up  them,  by  means  of  the  iron  balustrades.  There  is  an  ap- 
pearance of  danger  about  it,  on  which  account  those  who  are 
liable  to  get  dizzy  had  better  not  make  the  attempt : all  the 
discomfort,  however,  is  fully  compensated  by  the  sight  of 
the  great  masterpiece  of  art.  And  at  this  moment  I am  so 
taken  with  Michael  Angelo,  that  after  him  I have  no  taste 
even  for  nature  herself ; especially  as  I am  unable  to  contem- 
plate her  with  the  same  eye  of  genius  that  he  did.  Oh,  that 
there  were  only  some  means  of  fixing  such  paintings  in  my 
' soul ! At  any  rate,  I shall  bring  with  me  every  engraving 
. and  drawing  of  his  pictures,  or  drawings  after  him,  that  I can 
i lay  hold  of. 

■ Then  we  went  to  the  Loggie,  painted  by  Raphael,  and 
i scarcely  dare  I say  that  we  could  not  endure  to  look  at 
them.  The  eye  had  been  so  dilated  and  spoiled  b}'  those 
great  forms,  and  the  glorious  finish  of  every  part,  that  it  was 
not  able  to  follow  the  ingenious  windings  of  the  Arabesques  ; 

I and  the  Scripture  histories,  however  beautiful  they  were,  did 
not  stand  examination  after  the  former.  And  yet  to  see 
these  works  frequently  one  after  another,  and  to  compare 
them  together  at  leisure,  and  without  prejudice,  must  be  a 
source  of  great  pleasure ; for  at  first  all  sympathy  is  more 
or  less  exclusive. 

Under  a sunshine,  if  any  thing  rather  too  warm,  we  thence 
, proceeded  to  the  Villa  Pamphili,  whose  beautiful  gardens  are 
much  resorted  to  for  amusement ; and  there  we  remained  till 
evening.  A large,  fiat  meadow,  enclosed  by  long,  evergreen 
oaks  and  lofty  pines,  was  sown  all  over  with  daisies,  which 
turned  their  heads  to  the  sun.  I now  revived  my  botanical 
speculations  which  I had  indulged  in  the  other  day  during  a 
walk  towards  Monte  Mario,  to  the  Villa  Melini,  and  the  Villa 
, Madama.  It  is  very  interesting  to  observe  the  working  of  a 
vigorous,  unceasing  vegetation,  which  is  here  unbroken  by 
any  severe  cold.  Here  there  are  no  buds  : one  has  actually 
to  learn  what  a bud  is.  The  strawberry-tree  {arbutus 
unedo)  is  at  this  season,  for  the  second  time,  in  blossom, 
while  its  last  fruits  are  just  ripening.  So  also  the  orange- 
tree  may  be  seen  in  flower,  and  at  the  same  time  bearing 
partially  and  fully  ripened  fruit.  (The  latter  trees,  how- 
ever, if  they  are  not  sheltered  by  standing  between  build- 


196 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


ings,  are  at  this  season  generally  covered.)  As  to  the 
cypress,  that  most  “ venerable  ” of  trees  when  it  is  old  and  j- 
well  grown,  it  affords  matter  enough  for  thought.  As  soon 
as  possible  I shall  pay  a visit  to  the  Botanical  Gardens,  and  ’ 
hope  to  add  there  much  to  m}-  experience.  Generally,  there 
is  nothing  to  be  compared  with  the  new  life  which  the  sight 
of  a new  country  affords  to  a thoughtful  person.  Although  ‘ 
I am  still  the  same  being,  I yet  think  I am  changed  to  the 
very  marrow.  | 

For  the  present  I conclude,  and  shall  perhaps  fill  the  next 
sheet  with  murders,  disorders,  earthquakes,  and  troubles, 
in  order  that  at  any  rate  my  pictures  may  not  be  without 
shades. 

Rome,  Dec.  3,  1786. 

The  weather  lately  has  changed  almost  every  six  days. 
Two  days  quite  glorious,  then  a doubtful  one,  and  after  it 
two  or  three  rainy  ones,  and  then  again  fine  weather.  I 
endeavor  to  put  each  day,  according  to  its  nature,  to  the 
best  use. 

And  yet  these  glorious  objects  are  even  still  like  new 
acquaintances  to  me.  One  has  not  yet  lived  with  them,  nor 
got  familiar  with  their  peculiarities.  Some  of  them  attract 
us  with  irresistible.power,  so  that  for  a time  we  feel  indif- 
ferent, if  not  unjust,  to  all  others.  Thus,  for  instance,  the 
Pantheon,  the  Apollo  Belvedere,  some  colossal  heads,  and 
very  recently  the  Sistine  Chapel,  have  by  turns  so  won  my 
whole  heart,  that  I scarcely  saw  any  thing  besides  them. 
But,  in  truth,  can  man,  little  as  man  always  is.  and  accus- 
tomed to  littleness,  ever  make  himself  equal  to  all  that  here 
surrounds  him  of  what  is  noble,  vast,  and  refined?  Even 
though  he  should  in  any  degree  adapt  himself  to  it,  then  how 
vast  is  the  multitude  of  objects  that  immediatel}'  press  upon 
him  from  all  sides,  and  meet  him  at  every  turn,  of  which 
each  demands  for  itself  the  tribute  of  his  whole  attention.  1 
How  is  one  to  get  out  of  the  difficulty?  No  other  way  i 
assuredly  than  by  patiently  allowing  it  to  work,  becoming 
industrious,  and  attending  the  while  to  all  that  others  have 
accomplished  for  our  benefit. 

Winckelmanu’s  “ History  of  Art,”  translated  by  Rea  (the 
new  edition),  is  a veiy  useful  book,  which  I have  just  pro- 
cured, and  here  on  the  spot  find  it  to  be  highly  profitable,  as 
1 have  around  me  many  kind  friends,  willing  to  explain  and 
to  comment  upon  it. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


197 


Eoman  antiquities  also  begin  to  have  a charm  for  me. 
History,  inscriptions,  coins  (of  which  formerly  T knew 
[i  nothing),  all  are  pressing  upon  me.  As  I fared  with  nat- 
ural history,  so  I do  here  also  ; for  the  history  of  the  whole 
world  attaches  itself  to  this  spot,  and  I reckon  a new  birth- 
day, — a true  new  bh’th  from  the  day  I entered  Rome. 

I Dec.  5,  1786. 

During  the  few  weeks  that  I have  been  here,  I have  already 
j seen  many  straugei's  come  and  go,  so  that  I have  often 
wondered  at  the  levity  with  which  so  many  treat  these  pre- 
cious monuments.  God  be  thanked  that  hereafter  none  of 
I those  birds  of  passage  will  be  able  to  impose  upon  me. 

I When,  in  the  North,  thei'  shall  speak  to  me  of  Rome,  none  of 
them  now  will  be  able  to  excite  my  spleen  ; for  I also  have 
seen  it,  and  know  too,  in  some  degree,  where  I have  been. 

Dec.  8,  1786. 

We  have,  every  now  and  then,  the  most  beautiful  days. 
The  rain  which  falls  from  time  to  time  has  made  the  grass 
and  garden-stuffs  quite  verdant.  Evergreens,  too,  are  to  be 
seen  here  at  different  spots,  so  that  one  scarcely  misses  the 
fallen  leaves  of  the  forest  trees.  In  the  gardens  you  may 
see  orange-trees  full  of  fruit,  left  in  the  open  ground  and  not 
under  cover. 

I had  intended  to  give  yon  a particular  account  of  a very 
pleasant  trip  which  we  took  to  the  sea,  and  of  our  fishing-ex- 
ploits ; but  in  the  evening  poor  Moritz,  as  he  was  riding 
home,  broke  his  arm,  his  horse  having  slipped  on  the  smooth 
Roman  pavement.  This  marred  all  our  pleasure,  and  has 
plunged  our  little  domestic  circle  in  sad  affliction. 

Dec.  13,  1786. 

I am  heartily  delighted  that  you  have  taken  my  sudden 
disappearance  just  as  I wished  you  should.  Pray  appease 
for  me  every  one  that  may  have  taken  offence  at  it.  I never 
wished  to  give  any  one  pain,  and  even  now  I cannot  say  any 
thing  to  excuse  myself.  God  keep  me  from  ever  afflicting 
my  friends  with  the  premises  which  led  me  to  this  resolution. 

Here  I am  gradually  recovering  from  my  “ salto  mortale,” 
and  studying  rather  than  enjoying.  Rome  is  a world,  and 
one  must  spend  years  before  one  can  become  at  all  acquainted 
with  it.  How  happy  do  I consider  those  travellers  who  can 
take  a look  at  it  and  go  their  way  ! 


198 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


Yesterday  many  of  Winckelmann’s  letters  which  he  wrote 
from  Italy  fell  into  my  hands.  With  what  emotions  I began 
to  read  them  ! About  this  same  season,  some  one  and  thiity 
years  ago,  he  came  hither  a still  poorer  simpleton  than  I ; 
but  then  he  had  such  thorough  German  enthusiasm  for  all 
that  is  sterling  and  genuine,  either  in  antiquity  or  art.  How 
bravely  and  diligently  he  worked  his  way  through  all  dif- 
ficulties ; and  what  good  it  does  me,  — the  remembrance  of 
such  a man  in  such  a place  ! 

After  the  objects  of  Nature,  who  in  all  her  parts  is  true  to 
herself,  and  consistent,  nothing  speaks  so  loudly  as  the  re- 
membrance of  a good,  intelligent  man,  — that  genuine  art 
which  is  no  less  consistent  and  harmonious  than  herself. 
Here  in  Rome  we  feel  this  right  well,  where  so  many  an  arbi- 
trary caprice  has  had  its  day,  where  so  many  a folly  has 
immortalized  itself  by  its  power  and  its  gold. 

The  following  passage  in  Winckelmanu’s  letters  to  Fran- 
conia particularly  pleased  me.  “ We  must  look  at  all  the 
objects  in  Rome  with  a certain  degi’ee  of  phlegm,  or  else  one 
wall  be  taken  for  a Frenchman.  In  Rome,  1 believe,  is  the 
high  school  for  all  the  world ; and  I also  have  been  purified 
and  tried  in  it.” 

This  remark  applies  directl3’  to  my  mode  of  visiting  the 
different  objects  here  ; and  most  certain  is  it,  that  out  of 
Rome  no  one  can  have  an  idea  how  one  is  schooled  in  Rome. 
One  must,  so  to  speak,  be  new  born ; and  one  looks  back  on 
his  earlier  notions  as  a man  does  on  the  little  shoes  which 
fitted  him  when  a child.  The  most  ordiuaiw  man  learns 
something  here  : at  least  he  gains  one  uncommon  idea,  even 
though  it  never  should  pass  into  his  whole  being. 

This  letter  will  reach  you  in  the  new  j’ear.  All  good 
wishes  for  the  beginning  : before  the  end  of  it  we  shall  meet 
again,  and  that  will  be  no  little  gratification.  The  one  that 
is  passing  away  has  been  the  most  important  of  my  life.  I 
may  now  die,  or  I maj"  tariw  a little  longer  j'et : in  cither 
case  it  was  well.  And  now  a word  or  two  more  for  the 
little  ones. 

To  the  children  you  may  either  read  or  tell  what  follows. 
Here  there  are  no  signs  of  winter : the  gardens  are  planted 
with  evergreens  ; the  sun  shines  bright  and  warm  ; snow  is 
nowhere  to  be  seen,  except  on  the  most  distant  hills  towaixis 
the  north.  The  citron-trees,  which  are  planted  against  the 
garden  walls,  are  now,  one  after  another,  covered  with  reeds  ; 
but  the  oranges  are  allowed  to  stand  quite  open.  Many 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


199 


hundreds  of  the  finest  fruits  may  be  seen  hanging  on  a single 
tree  ; whieh  is  not,  as  -vvitli  us,  dwarfed,  and  planted  in  a 
bucket,  but  stands  in  the  earth,  free  and  jojmus,  amidst  a long 
line  of  brothers.  The  oranges  are  even  now  very  good,  but 
it  is  thought  they  will  be  still  finer. 

We  were  lately  at  the  sea,  and  had  a haul  of  fish,  and 
di’ew  to  the  light,  fishes,  crabs,  and  rare  univalves  of  the 
most  wonderful  shapes  conceivable  ; also  the  fish  which  gives 
an  electric  shock  to  all  who  touch  it. 


Bojie,  Dec.  20,  1786. 

And  yet,  after  all,  it  is  more  trouble  and  care  than  enjoy- 
ment. The  Regenerator,  which  is  changing  me  within  and 
without,  continues  to  work.  I certainly  thought  that  I had 
something  really  to  learn  here  ; but  that  I should  have  to 
take  so  low  a place  in  the  school,  that  I must  forget  so  much 
that  I had  learned,  or  rather  absolutely  unlearn  so  much,  — of 
that  I had  never  the  least  idea.  Now,  however,  that  I am 
once  convinced  of  its  necessity,  I have  devoted  mj’self  to  the 
task  ; and  the  more  I am  obliged  to  renounce  my  former  self, 
the  more  delighted  I am.  I am  like  an  architect  who  has 
begun  to  build  a tower,  but  finds  he  has  laid  a bad  founda- 
tion : he  becomes  aware  of  the  fact  betimes,  and  willingly 
goes  to  work  to  pull  down  all  that  he  has  raised  above  the 
earth ; having  done  so,  he  proceeds  to  enlarge  his  ground 
plan,  and  now  rejoices  to  anticipate  the  undoubted  stability 
of  his  future  building.  Heaven  grant,  that,  on  my  return, 
the  moral  couseqences  may  be  discernible  of  all  that  this 
living  in  a wider  world  has  effected  within  me  ! F or,  in 

sooth,  the  moral  sense  as  well  as  the  artistic  is  undergoing 
a great  change. 

Dr.  Miinter  is  here  on  his  return  from  his  tour  in  Sicily,  — 
an  energetic,  vehement  man.  What  objects  he  may  have,  I 
cannot  tell.  He  will  reach  you  in  Maj',  and  has  much  to  tell 
you.  He  has  been  travelling  in  Italy  two  years.  He  is  dis- 
gusted with  the  Italians,  who  have  not  paid  due  respect  to 
the  weighty  letters  of  recommendation  which  were  to  have 
opened  to  him  many  an  archive,  many  a private  library  ; so 
that  he  is  far  from  having  accomplished  his  object. 

He  has  collected  some  beautiful  coins,  and  possesses,  he 
tells  me,  a manuscript  which  reduces  numismatics  to  as  pre- 
cise a system  of  characteristics  as  the  Linnsean  system  of 
botany.  Herder,  he  says,  knows  still  more  about  it : proba- 
bly a transcript  of  it  will  be  permitted.  To  do  something  of 


200 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


the  kind  is  certainly  possible  •,  and,  if  well  done,  it  will  be 
truly  valuable  : and  we  must,  sooner  or  later,  enter  serioush' 
into  this  branch  of  learning. 


Rome,  Dec.  25,  1786. 

I am  now  beginning  to  revisit  the  principal  sights  of 
Rome ; in  such  second  views,  our  first  amazement  generally 
dies  away  into  more  of  S5nnpatli3'  and  a purer  perception 
of  the  true  value  of  the  objects.  In  order  to  form  an  idea  of 
the  highest  achievements  of  the  human  mind,  the  soul  must 
first  attain  to  perfect  freedom  from  prejudice  and  preposses- 
sion. 

IMarble  is  a rare  material.  It  is  on  this  account  that  the 
Apollo  Belvedere  in  the  original  is  so  infinitely  ravishing  ; 
for  that  sublime  air  of  j’outhful  freedom  and  vigor,  of  never- 
changing  juvenesceuce,  which  breathes  around  the  marble, 
at  once  A-anishes  in  the  best  even  of  plaster  casts. 

In  the  Palace  Roudauiui,  which  is  right  opposite  our  lodg- 
ings, there  is  a Medusa-mask,  aboA^e  the  size  of  life,  in  which 
the  attempt  to  portraj'  a lofty  and  beautiful  countenance  in 
the  numbing  agony  of  death  has  been  indescribably  success- 
ful. I possess  an  excellent  cast  of  it,  but  the  charm  of 
the  marble  remains  not.  The  noble  semi-trausparencA’  of  the 
j'elloAv  stone  — approaching  almost  to  the 'hue  of  flesh  — is 
A'anished.  Compared  with  it,  plaster  of  Paris  has  a clialky 
and  dead  look. 

And  yet  how  delightful  it  is  to  go  to  a modeller  in  gA'p- 
sum,  and  to  see  the  noble  limbs  of  a statue  come  out  one  by 
one  from  the  mould,  and  therebj’  to  acquire  wholh*  new  ideas 
of  their  shapes.  And  then,  again,  b}’  such  means  all  that  in 
Rome  is  scattered,  is  brought  together,  for  the  purpose  of 
comparison  ; and  this  alone  is  of  inestimable  service.  Ac- 
cordingly, I could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  procure  a cast 
of  the  colossal  head  of  Jupiter.  It  stands  right  opposite 
m\'  bed,  in  a good  light,  in  order  that  I may  address  my 
morning  deA'otions  to  it.  '\^*ith  all  its  grandeur  and  dignity, 
it  has,  however,  given  rise  to  one  of  the  funniest  interludes 
possible. 

Our  old  hostess,  when  she  comes  to  make  my  bed.  is  gen- 
erallj’  followed  by  her  pet  cat.  YesterdaA'  I was  sitting  in 
the  great  hall,  and  could  hear  the  old  woman  pursue  her 
avocation  Avithin.  On  a sudden,  in  great  haste,  and  with  an 
excitement  quite  unusual  to  her,  she  opened  the  door,  and 
called  to  me  to  come  quickly'  and  see  a wonder.  To  my 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


201 


question,  what  was  the  matter,  she  replied  the  cat  was  say- 
ing its  prayei;s.  Of  the  animal  she  had  long  observed,  she 
told  me,  that  it  had  as  much  sense  as  a Christian  ; but  this 
was  really  a great  wonder.  I hastened  to  see  it  with  my  own 
eyes  ; and  it  was,  indeed,  strange  enough.  The  bust  stood 
on  a high  pedestal,  and,  as  there  was  a good  length  of  the 
shoulders,  the  head  stood  high.  Now,  the  cat  had  sprung 
upon  the  table,  and  had  placed  her  fore-feet  on  the  breast  of 
the  god,  and,  stretching  her  bodj-  to  its  utmost  length,  just 
reached  with  her  muzzle  his  sacred  beard,  which  she  was 
licking  most  ceremoniously  ; and  neither  by  the  exclamation 
of  the  hostess,  nor  my  entrance  into  the  room,  was  she  at 
all  disturbed.  I left  the  good  dame  to  her  astonishment ; 
and  she  afterwards  accounted  for  puss’s  strange  act  of  devo- 
tion by  supposing  that  this  sharp-nosed  cat  had  caught  scent 
of  the  grease  which  had  probably  been  transferred  from  the 
mould  to  the  deep  lines  of  the  beard,  and  had  remained 
there. 

Dec.  29, 1786. 

Of  Tischbein  I have  much  to  sa}*  and  to  boast.  In  the 
first  place,  a thorough  and  original  German,  he  has  made 
himself  entirely  what  he  is.  In  the  next  jilace,  I must  make 
grateful  mention  of  the  friendly  attentions  he  has  shown  me 
throughout  the  time  of  his  second  stay  in  Rome.  For  he 
has  had  prepared  for  me  a series  of  copies  after  the  best 
masters,  — sbme  in  black  chalk,  others  in  sepia  and  water- 
colors, — which  in  Germany,  when  I shall  be  at  a distance 
from  the  originals,  will  grow  in  value,  and  will  serve  to 
remind  me  of  all  that  is  rarest  and  best. 

At  the  commencement  of  his  career  as  an  artist,  when  he 
set  up  as  a portrait-painter,  Tischbein  came  in  contact,  espe- 
cially in  Munich,  with  distinguished  personages,  and  in  his 
intercourse  with  them  strengthened  his  artistic  feeling  and 
-enlarged  his  views. 

The  second  part  of  the  Zerstreute  Blatter”  (stray  leaves) 
I have  brought  with  me  hither,  and  they  are  doubly  welcome. 
What  good  influence  this  little  book  has  had  on  me,  even  on 
the  second  perusal.  Herder,  for  his  reward,  shall  be  circum- 
stantially informed.  Tischbein  cannot  conceive  how  any 
thing  so  excellent  could  ever  have  been  written  by  one  who 
has  never  been  in  Italy 


202 


LETTERS  FROaM  ITALY. 


Dec.  29, 178C. 

In  tills  world  of  artists  one  lives,  as  it  were,  in  a mirrored 
chamber,  where,  without  wishing  it,  one  sees  his  own  image 
and  those  of  others  continually  multiplied.  Latterly  I have 
often  observed  Tischbein  attentively  regarding  me  ; and  now 
it  appears  that  he  has  long  cherished  the  idea  of  painting 
my  portrait.  His  design  is  already  settled,  and  the  canvas 
stretched.  I am  to  be  drawn  of  the  size  of  life,  enveloped  in 
a wdiite  mantle,  and  sitting  on  a fallen  obelisk,  viewing  the 
ruins  of  the  Campagna  di  Roma,  which  are  to  fill  up  the 
background  of  the  picture.  It  will  form  a beautiful  piece, 
only  it  will  be  rather  too  large  for  our  northern  habitations. 
I,  indeed,  may  again  crawl  into  them,  but  the  portrait  will 
never  be  able  to  enter  their  doors. 

I cannot  help  observing  the  great  efforts  that  are  con- 
stantly being  made  to  draw  me  from  m3'  retirement,  — how 
the  poets  either  read  or  get  their  pieces  read  to  me ; and  I 
should  be  blind  did  I not  see  that  it  depends  only  on  mA'self 
wdiether  I shall  pla}'  a part  or  not.  All  this  is  amusing 
enough  ; for  I have  long  since  measured  the  lengths  to  which 
one  ma}’  go  in  Rome.  The  man}'  little  coteries  here  at  the 
feet  of  the  mistress  of  the  world  strongl}’  remind  one  occa- 
sionally of  an  ordinary  countiy  town. 

In  sooth,  things  here  are  much  like  what  they  are  every- 
where else  ; and  what  could  he  done  with  me  and  through  me 
causes  me  ennui  long  before  it  is  accomplished.  Here  you 
must  take  up  with  one  part}"  or  another,  and  help  them  to 
cany’  on  their  feuds  and  cabals ; and  you  must  praise  these 
artists  and  those  dilettanti,  disparage  their  rivals,  and,  above 
all,  be  pleased  with  every  thing  that  the  rich  and  great  do. 
All  these  little  meannesses,  then,  for  the  sake  of  which  one 
is  almost  ready  to  leave  the  world  itself,  — must  I here  mix 
myself  up  with  them,  and  that,  too,  when  I have  neither 
interest  nor  stake  in  them?  No  : I shall  go  no  farther  than 
is  merel}’  necessaiy  to  know  what  is  going  on,  and  thus  to 
learn,  in  private,  to  be  more  contented  with  my  lot.  and  to 
stifle  the  desire,  in  m3'self  and  others,  of  going  out  into  the 
dear  wide  world.  I wish  to  see  Rome  in  its  abiding  and 
permanent  features,  and  not  as  it  passes  and  changes  with 
every  ten  years.  Had  I time,  I might  wish  to  employ  it  bet- 
ter. Above  all,  one  ma}'  stud}’  history  here  quite  differently 
from  what  one  can  on  any  other  spot.  In  other  places  one 
has,  as  it  were,  to  read  one’s  self  into  it  from  without : here 
one  fancies  that  he  reads  from  within  outwards  : all  arranges 


LETTERS  FROJI  ITALY. 


203 


itself  around  you,  and  seems  to  proceed  from  j’ou.  And  this 
holds  good,  not  only  of  Roman  histoiy,  but  also  of  that  of 
the  whole  world.  From  Rome  I can  accompany  the  con- 
querors on  their  march  to  the  Weser  or  to  the  Euphrates; 
or,  if  I wish  to  be  a sight-seer,  I can  wait  in  the  Via  Sacra 
for  the  triumphant  generals,  and  in  the  meantime  receive  for 
my  support  the  largesses  of  corn  and  money,  and  so  take  a 
very  comfortable  share  in  all  the  splendor. 


Eome,  Jan.  2, 1787. 

Men  may  say  what  they  will  in  fai'or  of  a vsritten  and 
oral  communication  : it  is  only  in  a veiy  few  cases  indeed  tha.. 
it  is  at  all  adequate  ; for  it  never  can  convey  the  true  char- 
acter of  any  object  soever,  — no,  not  even  of  a purely  intel- 
lectual one.  But  if  one  has  already  enjoyed  a sure  and 
steady  view  of  the  object,  then  one  may  profitably  hear  or 
read  about  it ; for  then  there  exists  a living  impression 
around  which  all  else  may  arrange  itself  in  the  mind,  and 
then  one  can  think  and  judge. 

You  have  often  laughed  at  me,  and  wished  to  drive  me 
away  from  the  peculiar  taste  I had  for  examining  stones, 
plants,  or  animals,  from  certain  theoretical  points  of  view : 
now,  however,  I am  directing  my  attention  to  architects, 
statuaries,  and  painters,  and  hope  to  find  mj^self  learning 
something  even  from  them. 

Eome,  Jan.  4,  1787. 

After  all  this,  I must  further  speak  to  you  of  the  state  of 
indecision  in  which  I am  with  regard  to  my  stay  in  Italy. 
In  my  last  letter  I wrote  to  you  that  it  was  my  purpose  to 
leave  Rome  immediately  after  Easter,  and  gradually  return 
home.  Until  then  I shall  yet  gather  a few  more  shells  from 
the  shore  of  the  great  ocean,  and  so  my  most  urgent  needs 
will  have  been  appeased.  I am  now  cured  of  a violent  pas- 
sion and  disease,  and  restored  to  the  enjoyment  of  life,  to 
the  enjoyment  of  history,  poetry,  and  of  antiquities,  and 
have  treasures  which  it  will  take  me  many  a long  year  to 
polish  and  to  finish. 

Recently,  however,  friendl}'  voices  have  reached  me  to  the 
effect  that  I ought  not  to  be  in  a hurry,  but  to  wait  till  I can 
return  home  with  still  richer  gains.  From  the  Duke,  too,  I 
have  received  a verj'  kind  and  considerate  letter,  in  which  he 
excuses  me  from  my  duties  for  an  indefinite  period,  and  sets 
me  quite  at  ease  with  respect  to  my  absence.  My  mind, 


204 


LETTERS  FRO.AI  ITALY. 


therefore,  turns  to  the  vast  field  which  I must  otherwise  have 
left  untrodden.  For  instance,  in  the  case  of  coins  and  cam- 
eos, I have  as  yet  been  able  to  do  nothing.  I have,  indeed, 
begun  to  read  AViuckelmann’s  “History  of  Art,  ’’  but  have 
passed  over  Egypt:  for  I feel,  once  again,  that  I must  look 
out  before  me ; and  I have  done  so  with  regard  to  Egyptian 
matters.  The  more  we  look,  the  more  distant  becomes  the 
horizon  of  art ; and  he  who  would  step  surely  must  step 
slowly. 

1 intend  to  stay  here  till  the  Carnival ; and.  in  the  first 
week  of  Lent,  shall  set  off  for  Naples,  taking  Tisehbein  with 
me,  both  because  it  will  be  a treat  to  him,  and  because,  in 
his  society,  all  m3'  enjoyments  are  more  than  doubled.  I 
purpose  to  return  hither  before  Easter,  for  the  sake  of  the 
solemnities  of  Passion  AYeek,  But  there  Sicily  lies  — there 
below.  A'  journe}'  thither  requires  more  preparation,  and 
ought  to  be  taken,  too,  in  the  autumn.  It  must  not  be 
merel3’  a ride  round  it  and  across  it,  which  is  soon  done,  but 
from  which  we  bring  a^a}'  with  us,  in  return  for  our  fatigue 
and  money,  nothing  but  a simple,  / have  seen  it:  the  best 
wa}-is  to  take  up  one’s  quarters,  first  of  all,  in  Palenno,  and 
afterwards  in  Catania ; and  then,  from  those  points,  to  make 
fixed  and  profitable  excursions,  having  previousl}',  however, 
well  studied  Eiedesel  and  others  on  the  localit}'. 

If,  then,  I spend  the  summer  in  Rome,  I shall  set  to  work 
to  study,  and  to  prepare  myself  for  visiting'  Sicih’.  As  I 
cannot  veiy  well  go  there  before  November,  and  must  stav 
there  till  over  December,  it  will  be  the  spring  of  1788  before 
I can  hope  to  get  home  ag.ain.  Then,  again.  I have  had 
before  m3'  mind  a medius  terminus.  Giving  up  the  idea  of 
visiting  8icil3’,  I have  thought  of  spending  a part  of  the 
summer  at  Rome,  and  then,  after  paying  a second  visit  to 
Florence,  getting  home  b3'  the  autumn. 

But  all  these  plans  have  been  much  perplexed  by  the  news 
' of  the  Duke’s  misfortune.  Since  receiving  the  letters  which 
informed  me  of  this  event  I have  had  no  rest,  and  would  like 
most  to  set  off  at  Easter,  laden  with  the  fragments  of  mv 
conquests,  and,  passing  quickty  through  Tapper  Italy,  be  in 
AA'eimar  again  by  June. 

I am  too  much  alone  here  to  decide  ; and  I write  you  this 
long  story  of  my  whole  position,  that  3'ou  ma3'  be  good 
enough  to  summon  a council  of  those  who  love  me,  and  who, 
being  on  the  spot,  know  the  circumstances  better  than  I. 
Let  them,  therefore,  determine  the  proper  course  for  me  to 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY, 


205 


take,  on  the  supposition  of  what,  I assure  you,  is  the  fact, 
that  I am  myself  more  disposed  to  return  than  to  stay.  The 
strongest  tie  that  holds  me  in  Italy  is  Tischbein.  I should 
never,  even  should  it  be  mj'  happy  lot  to  return  a second 
time  to  this  beautiful  land,  learn  so  much  in  so  short  a time 
as  I have  now  done  in  the  society  of  this  well-educated, 
highly  refined,  and  most  upright  man.  who  is  devoted  to  me, 
both  body  and  soul.  I canuot  now  tell  you  how  the  scales 
are  gradually  falling  from  off  my  eyes.  He  who  travels  by 
night  takes  the  dawn  for  day,  and  a murky  day  for  bright- 
ness : what  will  it  be  when  the  sun  rises  ? Moreover,  I have 
hitherto  kept  myself  from  all  the  world,  which  yet  is  getting 
hold  of  me  by  degrees,  and  which  I,  for  my  part,  was  not 
unwilling  to  watch  and  observe  with  stealthy  glances. 

I have  written  to  Fritz  a joking  account  of  my  reception 
into  the  Arcadia;  and  indeed  it  is  only  a subject  of  joke, 
for  the  Institute  is  really  sunk  into  miserable  insignificance. 

Next  Monday  week  Monti’s  tragedy  is  to  be  acted.  He  is 
extremely  anxious,  and  not  without  cause.  He  has  a very 
troublesome  public,  which  requmes  to  be  amused  from 
moment  to  moment ; and  his  play  has  no  brilliant  passages 
in  it.  He  has  asked  me  to  go  with  him  to  his  box,  and 
stand  by  him  as  confessor  in  this  critical  moment.  Another 
is  ready  to  translate  my  ‘ ‘ Iphigeuia ; ’ ’ another,  to  do  I 
know  not  what,  in  honor  of  me.  They  are  all  so  divided 
into  parties,  and  so  bitter  against  each  other.  But  my 
countrymen  are  so  unanimous  in  my  favor,  that  if  I gave 
them  any  encouragement,  and  yielded  to  them  in  the  very 
least,  they  would  try  a hundred  follies  with  me,  and  end 
with  crowning  me  on  the  Capitol,  of  which  they  have  already 
seriously  thought  — so  foolish  is  it  to  have  a stranger  and  a 
Protestant  to  play  the  first  part  in  a comedy.  Mhat  con- 
nection there  is  in  all  this,  and  how  great  a fool  I was  to 
think  that  it  was  all  intended  for  my  honor,  — of  all  this  we 
will  talk  together  one  day. 

Jan.  6,  1787. 

I have  just  come  from  Moritz,  whose  arm  is  healed,  and 
loosed  from  its  bandages.  It  is  well  set,  firm,  and  he  can 
move  it  quite  freely.  What  during  these  last  forty  days  I 
have  experienced  and  learned,  as  nurse,  confessor,  and  pri- 
vate secretary,  to  this  patient,  may  prove  of  benefit  to  us 
hereafter.  The  most  painful  sufferings  and  the  noblest  eu* 
joyments  went  side  by  side  throughout  this  whole  period. 


206 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


To  refresh  me,  I yesterday  had  set  up  in  our  sitting-room 
a cast  of  a colossal  head  of  Juno,  of  which  the  original  is  in 
the  Villa  Ludovisi.  This  was  my  first  love  in  Rome,  and 
now  I have  gained  the  object  of  my  wishes.  No  words  can 
give  the  remotest  idea  of  it.  It  is  like  one  of  Homer’s  songs, 

I have,  however,  deseiwed  the  neighborhood  of  such  good 
society  for  the  future  ; for  I can  now  tell  you  that  Iphigeuia 
is  at  last  finished,  i.e.,  that  it  lies  before  me  on  the  table 
in  two  tolerably  concordant  copies,  of  which  one  will  verj’ 
soon  begin  its  pilgrimage  to  you.  Receive  it  with  all  indul- 
gence ; for,  to  spealf  the  truth,  what  stands  on  the  paper  is 
not  exactly  what  I intended,  but  still  it  will  convey  an  idea 
of  what  was  in  my  mind. 

You  complain  occasionally  of  some  obscure  passages  in 
my  letters,  which  allude  to  the  oppression,  which  I suffer  in 
the  midst  of  the  most  glorious  objects  in  the  world.  "With 
all  this,  my  fellow-traveller  — this  Grecian  princess  — has 
had  a great  deal  to  do  ; for  she  has  kept  me  close  at  work 
when  I wished  to  be  seeing  sights. 

I often  think  of  our  worthy  friend,  who  had  long  deter- 
mined upon  a grand  tour  which  one  might  well  term  a 
voyage  of  discovery.  After  Re  had  studied  and  economized 
several  years  with  a view  to  this  object,  he  took  it  in  his 
head  to  carry  off  the  daughter  of  a noble  house,  thinking  it 
was  all  one. 

With  no  less  of  criminality,  I determined  to  take  Iphigenia 
wdth  me  to  Carslbad.  I will  now  briefly’  enumerate  the 
places  where  I held  special  converse  with  her. 

When  I had  left  behind  me  the  Brenner,  I took  her  out  of 
my  large  portmanteau,  and  placed  her  by  my  side.  At  the 
Lago  di  Garda,  while  the  strong  south  wind  drove  the  waves 
on  the  beach,  and  where  I was  at  least  as  much  alone  as  my 
heroine  on  the  coast  of  Tauris,  I drew  the  first  outlines, 
which  afterwards  I filled  up  at  Verona,  Vicenza,  and  Padua, 
but  above  all,  and  most  cliligeutly,  at  Venice.  After  this, 
however,  the  work  came  to  a staud-still ; for  I hit  upon  a new 
design,  A’iz.,  of  writing  an  Iphigeuia  at  Delphi,  which  I 
should  have  immediatelj"  carried  into  execution,  but  for  the 
distractions  of  my  young,  and  for  a feeling  of  duty  towards 
the  older,  play. 

In  Rome,  however,  I went  on  with  it.  and  proceeded  with 
tolerable  steadiness.  Every  evening  before  I went  to  sleep 
I prepared  myself  for  my  morning’s  task,  which  was  resumed 
immediately  I awoke.  My  way  of  proceeding  was  quite 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


207 


simple  ; I calmly  wrote  clown  the  play,  and  tried  the  melody 
line  by  line,  and  period  by  period.  What  has  been  thus  pro- 
duced, you  shall  soon  judge  of.  For  my  part,  doing  this 
work,  I have  learnt  more  than  I have  done.  With  the  play 
i itself  there  shall  follow  some  further  remarks. 

To  speak  again  of  church  matters,  I must  tell  you  that  on 
the  night  of  Christmas  Day  we  wandered  about  in  troops, 
and  visited  all  the  churches  where  solemn  sendees  were  being 
performed.  One  especially  was  visited,  because  of  its  organ 
and  music : the  latter  was  so  arranged,  that  in  its  tones 
nothing  belonging  to  pastoral  music  was  wanting,  — neither 
the  singing  of  the  shepherds,  nor  the  twittering  of  birds,  nor 
the  bleating  of  sheep. 

On  Christmas  Day  I saw  the  Pope  and  the  whole  consistory 
I in  St.  Peter’s,  where  he  celebrated  high  mass,  partly  before 
and  parti}’  from  his  throne.  It  is  of  its  kind  an  unequalled 
sight,  splendid  and  dignified  enough ; but  I have  grown  so 
old  in  my  Protestant  Diogenism,  that  this  pomp  and 
splendor  revolt  me  more  than  the}’  attract  me.  I,  like  my 
pious  forefathers,  am  disposed  to  say  to  these  spiritual  con 
querors  of  the  world,  “ Hide  not  from  me  the  sun  of  higher 
art  and  purer  humanity.  ” 

Yesterday,  which  was  the  Feast  of  Epiphany,  I saw  and 
heard  mass  celebrated  after  the  Greek  rite.  The  ceremonies 
appeared  to  me  more  solemn,  more  severe,  more  suggestive, 
and  yet  more  popular,  than  the  Latin. 

But  there,  too,  I also  felt  again  that  I am  too  old  for  any 
thing,  except  for  truth  alone.  Their  ceremonies  and  operatic 
music,  their  gyrations  and  ballet-like  movements  — it  all 
passes  off  from  me  like  wat^r  from  an  oilskin  cloak.  A 
work  of  nature,  however,  like  that  of  a sunset  seen  from  the 
Villa  Madonna,  — a work  of  art,  like  my  much  honored  Juno, 
— makes  a deep  and  vivid  impression  on  me. 

And  now  I must  ask  you  to  congratulate  me  with  regard 
to  theatrical  matters.  Next  week  seven  theatres  will  be 
opened.  Anfossi  himself  is  here,  and  will  act  “ Alexander 
in  India.  ” A Cyrus  also  will  be  represented,  and  the 
“Taking  of  Troy”  as  a ballet.  That  assuredly  must  be 
something  for  the  children  ! 

Rome,  Jan.  10, 1787. 

Here,  then,  comes  the  “child  of  sorrows;  ” for  this  sur- 
name is  due  to  “ Iphigenia  ” in  more  than  one  sense.  On 


208 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


the  occasion  of  my  reading  it  to  our  artists,  I put  a mark 
against  several  lines,  some  of  which  I have  in  my  opinion 
improved,  but  others  I have  allowed  to  stand  — pei’haps 
Herder  will  cross  a few  of  them  with  his  pen. 

The  true  cause  of  my  having  for  many  years  .preferred 
prose  for  my  works,  is  the  great  uncertainty  in  which  our 
prosody  fluctuates,  in  consequence  of  which  many  of  my 
judicious  learned  friends  and  fellow  artists  have  left  many 
things  to  taste,  — a course,  however,  which  was  little  favora- 
ble to  the  establishing  of  any  certain  standard. 

I should  never  have  attempted  to  translate  “ Iphigenia  ” 
into  iambics,  had  not  Moritz’s  prosody  shone  upon  me  like  a 
star  of  light.  My  conversation  with  its  author,  especially 
during  his  confinement  from  his  accident,  has  still  more  en- 
lightened me  on  the  subject ; and  I would  recommend  my 
friends  to  think  favorably  of  it. 

It  is  somewhat  singular,  that  in  our  language  we  have  but 
very  few  syllables  which  are  decidedly  long  or  short.  With 
all  the  others,  one  proceeds  as  taste  or  caprice  may  dictate. 
Now,  Moritz,  after  much  thought,  has  hit  upon  the  idea  that 
there  is  a certain  order  of  rank  among  our  syllables,  and  that 
the  one  which  in  sense  is  more  emphatic  is  long  as  compared 
Avith  the  less  significant,  and  makes  the  latter  short ; but,  on 
the  other  hand,  it  does  in  its  turn  become  short  whenever  it 
comes  into  the  neighborhood  of  another  which  possesses 
greater  weight  and  emphasis  than  itself.  Here,  then,  is  at 
least  a rule  to  go  by  ; and  even  though  it  does  not  decide  the 
whole  matter,  still  it  opens  out  a path  by  which  one  may 
hope  to  get  a little  farther.  I have  often  allowed  myself  to 
be  influenced  by  these  rules,  and  generally  haA’e  found  my 
ear  agreeing  with  them. 

As  I formerly  spoke  of  a public  reading,  I must  quietly 
tell  you  how  it  passed  off.  These  young  men,  accustomed  to 
those  earlier  vehement  and  impetuous  pieces,  expected  some- 
thing after  the  fashion  of  Berliehiugen,  and  could  not  so 
Avell  make  out  the  calm  movement  of  ••  Iphigenia  : ” and  yet 
the  nobler  and  purer  passages  did  not  fail  of  effect.  Tisch- 
beiu,  who  also  could  hardly  reconcile  himself  to  this  entire 
absence  of  passion,  produced  a pretty  illustration  or  symbol 
of  the  work.  He  illustrated  it  by  a sacrifice,  of  which  the 
smoke,  borne  down  bj'  a light  breeze,  descends  to  the  earth, 
while  the  freer  flame  strives  to  ascend  on  high.  The  draw- 
ing was  Amry  pretty  and  significant.  I have  the  sketch  still 
by  me.  And  thus  the  work,  which  I thought  to  despatch  in 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


209 


no  time,  has  employed,  hindered,  occupied,  and  tortured  me 
a full  quarter  of  a 3’ear.  This  is  uot  the  first  time  that  I 
have  made  an  important  task  a mere  by-work ; but  we  will 
on  that  subject  no  longer  indulge  in  fancies  and  disputes. 

I enclose  a beautiful  cameo,  — a liou,  with  a gad-fly  buzz- 
ing at  his  nose.  This  seems  to  have  been  a favorite  subject 
with  the  ancients,  for  the}'  have  repeated  it  very  often.  I 
should  like  you,  from  this  time  forward,  to  seal  your  letters 
with  it,  in  order  that  through  this  (little)  trifle  an  echo  of  art 
may,  as  it  were,  reverberate  from  you  to  me. 

Rome,  Jan.  13, 1787. 

How  much  I have  to  say  each  day,  aud  how  sadly  I am 
prevented,  either  by  amusement  or  occupation,  from  commit- 
ting to  paper  a siugle  sage  remark ! And  then  again,  the 
fine  days,  when  it  is  better  to  be  auywherethan  in  the  rooms, 
which,  without  stove  or  chimney,  receive  us  only  to  sleep 
or  to  discomfort ! Some  of  the  incidents  of  the  last  week, 
however,  must  uot  be  left  unrecorded. 

In  the  Palace  Giustiniaui  there  is  a Minerva,  which  claims 
my  undivided  homage.  Winckelmann  scarcely  mentions  it, 
and,  at  any  rate,  uot  in  the  right  place ; and  I feel  myself 
quite  unworthy  to  say  any  thing  about  it.  As  we  contem- 
plated the  image,  and  stood  gaziug  at  it  a long  time,  the 
wife  of  the  keeper  of  the  collection  said,  “This  must  have 
once  been  a holy  image  ; aud  the  English,  who  happen  to  be 
of  this  religion,  are  still  accustomed  to  pay  worship  to  it  by 
kissing  this  hand  of  it”  (which  in  truth  was  quite  white, 
while  the  rest  of  the  statue  was  brownish).  She  further 
told  us  that  a lady  of  this  religion  had  been  there  uot  long 
before,  and,  throwing  herself  on  her  knees  before  the  statue, 
had  regularly  offered  prayer  to  it ; aud  I,  she  said,  as  a Chris- 
tian, could  not  help  smiling  at  so  strange  an  action,  and  was 
obliged  to  run  out  of  the  room,  lest  I should  burst  out  into  a 
loud  laugh  before  her  face.  As  I was  unwilling  to  move 
from  the  statue,  she  asked  me  if  my  beloved  wms  at  all  like 
the  statue,  that  it  charmed  me  so  much.  The  good  dame 
knew  of  nothing  besides  devotion  or  love  : but  of  the  pure 
adrau'ation  for  a glorious  piece  of  man’s  handiwork,  of  a 
mere  sympathetic  veneration  for  the  creation  of  the  human 
intellect,  she  could  form  no  idea.  Me  rejoiced  in  that  noble 
English  woman,  and  went  away  with  a longing  to  turn  our 
steps  back  again  ; aud  I shall  certainly  soon  go  once  more 
thither.  If  my  friends  wish  for  a more  particular  descrip- 


210  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY.  I 

tion,  let  them  read  what  Winckelmann  says  of  the  high  style  i 
of  art  among  the  Greeks : unfortunately,  however,  he  does  k 
not  adduce  this  Minerva  as  an  illustration.  But,  if  I do  not  |ti 
greatly  err,  it  is,  nevertheless,  of  -this  high  and  severe  style,  y 
since  it  passes  into  the  beautiful.  It  is,  as  it  were,  a bud  | 
that  opens,  and  so  a Minerva,  whose  character  this  idea  i 
of  transition  so  well  suits.  ' 

Now  for  a spectacle  of  a different  kind.  On  the  Feast  of  |i 
the  Three  Kings,  or  the  Commemoration  of  Christ’s  Mani-  1 
festation  to  the  Gentiles,  we  paid  a visit  to  the  Propaganda.  J 
There,  in  the  presence  of  three  cardinals  and  a large  audi- 
ence, an  essay  was  first  of  all  delivered,  which  treated  of  the 
place  in  which  the  Virgin  Mary  received  the  three  Magi,  — ' j 
in  the  stable;  or,  if  not,  Avhere?  Next,  some  Latin  verses  ' 
were  read  on  similar  subjects  ; and  after  this  a series  of  about 
thirty  scholars  came  forward,  one  b}’  one,  and  read  a little 
piece  of  poetry  in  their  native  tongues,  — Malabar,  Epirotic, 
Turkish,  Moldavian,  Hellenic,  Persian,  Colchian,  Hebrew, 
Arabic,  Syrian,  Coptic,  Saracenic,  Armenian,  Erse,  Mada-  i 
gassic,  Icelandic,  Bohemian,  Greek,  Isaurian,  .^thiopic,  etc.  I 
The  poems  seemed  for  the  most  part  to  be  composed  in  the  j 
national  syllabic  measure,  and  to  be  delivered  with  the  ver-  ( 
nacular  declamation,  for  most  barbaric  rhythms  and  tones  i 
occurred.  Among  them,  the  Greek  sounded  like  a star  in 
the  nio'ht.  The  audience  laughed  most  unmercifullv  at  the 
strange  sounds ; and  so  this  representation  also  became  a 
farce. 

And  now  (before  concluding)  a little  anecdote,  to  show 
with  what  levity  hoty  things  are  treated  in  Holy  Rome  : The 
deceased  cardinal,  Albani,  was  once  present  at  one  of  those 
festal  meetings  which  I have  just  been  describing.  One  of 
the  scholars,  with  his  face  turned  towards  the  cardinals, 
began,  in  a strange  pronunciation,  Gnaja!  Gncija!  so  that 
it  sounded  something  \\ke  canaglia  ! canaglia  ! The  cardinal 
turned  to  his  brothers,  with  a whisper,  “He  knows  us,  at 
any  rate.” 

How  much  has  MTuckelmann  done ! and  yet  how  much 
reason  has  he  left  us  to  wish  that  lie  had  done  still  more ! 
With  the  materials  which  he  had  collected  he  built  cpiickly. 
in  order  to  reach  the  roof.  Were  he  still  living,  he  would 
be  the  first  to  give  us  a recast  of  his  great  work.  M h.at 
further  observations,  what  corrections,  he  would  have  made ! 
to  what  good  use  he  would  have  put  all  that  others,  follow- 
ing his  own  principles,  have  observed  and  effected ! And, 


II 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


211 


besides,  Cardinal  Albani  is  dead,  out  of  respect  to  whom  he 
has  written  much,  and  perhaps  concealed  much. 


And  so,  then,  “ Aristodemo  ” has  at  last  been  acted,  and 
i with  good  success,  too,  and  the  greatest  applause:  as  the 
Abbate  Monti  is  related  to  the  house  of  the  Nepote,  and 
highly  esteemed  among  the  higher  orders,  from  these,  there- 
fore, all  was  to  be  hoped  for.  The  boxes,  indeed,  were  but 
I sparing  in  their  plaudits.  As  for  the  pit,  it  was  won,  from 
the  very  first,  by  the  beautiful  language  of  the  poet  and  the 
:|  appropriate  recitation  of  the  actors  ; and  it  omitted  no  oppor- 
I tunity  of  testifying  its  approbation.  The  bench  of  the  Ger- 
man artists  distinguished  themselves  not  a little  ; and  this 
time  no  fault  cau  be  found  with  them,  considering  they  are 

I at  all  times  a little  overloud. 

The  author  himself  remained  at  home,  full  of  anxiety 
1 : for  the  success  of  the  play.  From  act  to  act,  favorable  des- 
'|i  patches  arrived,  which  changed  his  fear  into  the  greatest  joy. 
’|;  Now  there  is  no  lack  of  repetitions  of  the  representation, 
j;  and  all  is  on  the  best  track.  Thus,  by  the  most  opposite 

I I things,  if  only  each  has  the  merit  it  claims,  the  favor  of  the 
ij  multitude,  as  well  as  of  the  connoisseur,  may  be  won. 

j|  But  the  acting  was  in  the  highest  degree  meritorious  ; and 
! the  chief  actor,  who  appears  throughout  the  play,  spoke  and 
' 1 acted  cleverly  : one  might  have  fancied  he  saw  one  of  the 
j ancient  C«sars  come  on  the  stage.  They  had,  very  judi- 
\ ciously,  transferred  to  their  stage  dresses  the  costnme  which 


Rome  is  threatened  with  a great  artistic  loss.  The  king 
; of  Naples  has  ordered  the  Hercules  Farnese  to  be  brought  to 
' his  palace.  The  news  has  made  all  the  artists  quite  sad. 
i However,  on  this  occasion  we  shall  see  something  which  was 
! hidden  from  our  forefathers. 

The  aforesaid  statue,  nauiehq  from  the  head  to  the  knee, 
and  afterwards  the  lower  part  of  the  feet,  together  with  the 
sockle  on  which  it  stood,  were  found  within  the  Farnesian 
! domain  : but  the  legs,  from  the  knee  to  the  ankle,  were  want- 
I ing,  and  had  been  supplied  by  Giugliehno  Porta  ; on  these  it 
I had  stood  since  its  discovery  to  the  present  daj'.  In  the 


Jan.  15,  1787. 


Jan.  18,  1787. 


212 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


mean  time,  however,  the  genuine  old  legs  were  found  in  the 
lands  of  the  Borgliesi,  and  were  to  be  seen  in  their  villa. 

Recently,  however,  the  Prince  Borghese  has  achieved  a 
victory  over  himself,  and  has  made  a present  of  these  costlv 
relics  to  the  king  of  Naples.  They  are  removing  Poita’s 
legs,  and  replacing  them  b}-  the  genuine  ones  ; and  every  one 
is  promising  himself  — however  well  contented  he  has  been 
hitherto  with  the  old  — quite  a new  treat  and  a more  har- 
monious enjoyment. 


Rome,  Jan.  18,  1787. 

Y'esterday,  which  was  the  Festival  of  the  Holy  Abbot  St. 
Anthony,  we  had  a merry  day.  The  weather  was  the  finest 
in  the  world : though  there  had  beeu  a hard  frost  during  the 
night,  the  da}'  was  bright  and  warm. 

One  maj'  remark,  that  all  religious  which  enlarge  their 
worship  or  their  speculations  must  at  last  come  to  this,  — of 
making  the  brute  creation  in  some  degree  partakers  of  spir- 
itual favors.  St.  Anthony  — abbot  or  bishop  — is  the  pat- 
ron saint  of  all  four-footed  creatures  : his  festival  is  a kind 
of  Saturnalian  holiday  for  the  otherwise  oppressed  beasts, 
and  also  for  their  keepers  and  drivers.  All  the  gentry  must 
on  this  day  either  remain  at  home,  or  else  be  content  to 
travel  on  foot.  And  there  are  no  lack  of  fearful  stones, 
which  tell  how  unbelieving  masters,  who  forced  their  coach- 
men to  drive  them  on  this  day,  were  punished  by  suffering 
great  calamities. 

The  church  of  the  saint  lies  iu  so  wide  and  open  a dis- 
trict, that  it  might  almost  be  called  a desert.  On  this  day, 
however,  it  is  full  of  life  and  fun.  Horses  and  mules,  with 
their  manes  and  tails  prettily,  not  to  say  gorgeously,  decked 
out  with  ribbons,  are  brought  before  the  chapel  (which  stands 
at  some  distance  from  the  church),  where  a priest,  anned 
with  a brush,  and  not  sparing  of  the  holy  water,  which 
stands  before  him  iu  buckets  and  tubs,  goes  on  sprinkling 
the  lively  creatures,  and  often  plays  them  a roguish  trick,  in 
order  to  make  them  start  and  frisk.  Pious  coachmen  offer 
their  wax-tapers,  of  larger  or  smaller  size.  The  masters  send 
alms  and  presents,  in  order  that  the  valuable  and  useful  aui- 
]uals  may  go  safely  through  the  coming  year  without  hurt  or 
accidents.  The  donkeys  and  horned  cattle,  no  less  valual'le 
and  useful  to  their  owners,  have,  likewise,  their  modest  share 
iu  tins  blessing. 

Afterwards  we  delighted  ourselves  with  a long  walk  under 


LETTERS  FROM  ITxiLY. 


213 


a delicious  sky,  aud  surrounded  by  the  most  interesting  ob- 
jects, to  which,  however,  we  this  time  paid  very  little  atten- 
tion, bnt  gave  full  scope  and  rein  to  joke  and  merriment. 

Rome,  Jan.  19,  1787. 

So,  then,  the  great  king,  whose  glory  filled  the  world, 
whose  deeds  make  him  worthy  of  even  the  Papists’  paradise, 
has  gone  at  last  from  this  life,  to  converse  with  heroes  like 
himself  in  the  realm  of  shades.  How  disposed  one  feels  to 
be  still  after  bringing  the  like  of  him  to  his  rest. 

This  has  been  a very  good  day.  First  of  all,  we  visited  a 
part  of  the  Capitol  which  we  had  previousl}'  neglected ; 
then  we  crossed  the  Tiber,  and  drank  some  Spanish  wine  on 
board  a ship  which  had  just  come  into  port.  It  was  on  this 
spot  that  Romulus  and  Remus  are  said  to  have  been  found. 
Thus  keeping,  as  it  were,  a donlile  or  treble  festival,  we  rev- 
elled in  the  inspiration  of  art,  of  a mild  atmosphere,  aud  of 
antiquarian  I’euiiniscences. 

Jan.  20,  1787. 

What  at  first  furnishes  a hearty  enjoyment,  when  we  take 
it  superficially  only,  often  weighs  on  us  afterwards  most 
' oppressively,  when  we  see  that,  without  solid  knowledge, 
the  true  delight  must  be  missed. 

As  regards  anatomy,  I am  pretty  well  prepared : and  1 
have,  not  without  some  labor,  gained  d tolerable  knowledge 
of  the  human  frame  ; for  the  continual  examination  of  the 
ancient  statues  is  continually  stimulating  one  to  a more  per- 
fect understanding  of  it.  In  our  medico-chirurgical  anat- 
I omy,  little  more  is  in  view  than  an  acquaintance  with  the 
several  parts  ; and,  for  this  purpose,  the  sorriest  picture  of 
the  muscles  may  serve  very  well : but  in  Rome  the  most 
exquisite  parts  would  not  even  be  noticed,  unless  as  helping 
to  make  a noble  aud  beautiful  form. 

Ill  the  great  Lazaretto  of  San  Spirito,  there  has  been  pre- 
pared, for  the  use  of  the  artists,  a very  fine  anatomical 
figure,  displaying  the  whole  muscular  system.  Its  beauty  is 
really  amazing.  It  might  pass  for  some  flaj^ed  demigod,  — 

I even  a Marsyas. 

I Thus,  after  the  example  of  the  ancients,  men  here  study 
the  human  skeleton,  not  merely  as  an  artistically  arranged 
; series  of  bones,  but  rather  for  the  sake  of  the  ligaments  with 
I which  life  and  motion  are  carried  on. 

; When  now  I tell  you  that  in  the  evening  we  also  study  per- 


214 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


spective,  it  must  be  pretty  plain  to  you  that  we  are  not  idle. 
With  all  our  studies,  however,  we  are  always  hoping  to  do 
more  than  we  ever  accomplish. 


Rome,  Jan.  22,  1787. 

Of  the  artistic  sense  of  Germans,  and  of  their  artistic 
life, — of  these  one  may  well  say.  One  hears  sounds,  but  they 
are  not  in  unison.  When  now  I bethink  myself  what  glori- 
ous objects  are  in  my  neighborhood,  and  how  little  I have 
profited  by  them,  I am  almost  tempted  to  despair;  but  then, 
again,  I console  myself  with  my  promised  return,  when  I 
hope  to  be  able  to  understand  these  masterpieces,  around 
which  now  I go  groping  miserably  in  the  dark. 

But,  in  fact,  even  in  Rome  itself,  there  is  but  little  pro- 
vision made  for  one  who  earnestly  wishes  to  study  art  as  a 
whole.  He  must  patch  it  up  and  put  it  together  for  himself 
out  of  endless,  but  still  gorgeously  rich,  ruins.  No  doubt 
but  few  of  those  who  visit  Rome  are  purely  and  earnestly 
desirous  to  see  and  to  learn  things  rightly  and  thoroughly. 
They  all  follow,  more  or  less,  their  own  fancies  and  conceits  ; 
and  this  is  observed  by  all  alike  who  attend  upon  the  stran- 
gers. Every  guide  has  his  own  object,  every  one  has  his 
own  dealer  to  recommend,  his  own  artist  to  favor  ; and  why 
should  he  not?  for  does  not  the  inexperienced  at  once  prize 
as  most  excellent  whatever  may  be  presented  to  him  as 
such. 

It  would  have  been  a gi’eat  benefit  to  the  study  of  art  — 
indeed  a peculiarly  rich  museum  miglit  have  been  foiined  — 
if  the  government  (whose  permission  even  at  present  must 
be  obtained  before  any  piece  of  antiquity  can  be  removed 
from  the  city)  had  on  such  occasions  invariably  insisted  on 
casts  of  the  objects  removed  being  delivered  to  it.  Besides, 
if  any  pope  had  established  such  a rule,  before  long  every 
one  would  have  opposed  all  further  removals ; for  in  a few 
years  people  would  have  been  frightened  at  the  number  and 
value  of  the  treasures  thus  carried  off,  — to  do  which,  there 
is  a way  of  obtaining  permission  secretly,  on  some  occasions, 
and  by  all  manner  of  means. 

* Jax.  22,  1787. 

The  representation  of  the  “ Aristodemo”  has,  stimulated, 
in  an  especial  degree,  the  patriotism  of  our  German  artists, 
which  before  was  far  from  being  asleep.  They  never  omit 
an  occasion  to  speak  M’ell  of  my  “ Iphigenia.”  Some  pas- 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


215 


sages  have  from  time  to  time  been  again  called  for,  and  I 
have  found  myself  at  last  compelled  to  a second  reading  of 
the  whole.  And  thus  also  I have  discovered  many  passages 
which  went  off  the  tongue  moi’e  smoothly  than  they  look  on 
the  paper. 

The  favorable  report  of  it  has  at  last  sounded  even  in  the 
ears  of  Reiffenstein  and  Angelica,  who  entreated  that  I 
should  produce  my  work  once  more  for  their  gratification. 
I begged,  however,  for  a brief  respite  ; though  1 was  obliged 
to  describe  to  them,  somewhat  circumstantially,  the  plan  and 
movement  of  the  plot.  The  description  won  the  approbation 
of  these  personages  more  even  than  I could  have  hoped  for ; 
and  Signor  Zucchi  also,  of  whom  I least  of  all  expected  it, 
evinced  a warm  and  liberal  sympathy  -with  the  play.  The 
latter  circumstance,  however,  is  easily  accounted  for  by  the 
fact  that  the  drama  approximates  very  closely  to  the  old 
and  customary  form  of  Greek,  French,  and  Italian  tragedy, 
which  is  most  agreeable  to  every  one  whose  taste  has  not 
been  spoilt  by  the  temerities  of  the  English  stage. 

Home,  Jan.  25,  1787. 

It  becomes  every  day  more  difficult  to  fix  the  termination 
of  my  stay  in  Rome : just  as  one  finds  the  sea  continually 
deeper  the  farther  one  ^ails  on  it,  so  it  is  also  with  the 
examination  of  this  city. 

It  is  impossible  to  understand  the  present  without  a knowl- 
edge of  the  past ; and  to  compare  the  two,  requires  both  time 
and  leisure.  The  very  site  of  the  city  carries  us  back  to 
the  time  of  its  being  founded.  We  see  at  once  that  no  great 
people,  under  a wise  leader,  settled  here  from  its  wanderings, 
and  with  wise  forecast  laid  the  foundations  of  the  seat  of 
future  empire.  No  powerful  prince  would  ever  have  selected 
this  spot  as  well  suited  for  the  habitation  of  a colony.  No ! 
herdsmen  and  vagabonds  first  prepared  here  a dwelling  for 
themselves  : a couple  of  adventurous  j'ouths  laid  the  founda- 
tion of  the  palaces  of  the  masters  of  the  world  on  the  hill  at 
the  foot  of  which,  amidst  the  marshes  and  reeds,  they  had 
defied  the  officers  of  law  and  justice.  Moreover,  the  seven 
hills  of  Rome  are  not  elevations  above  the  land  which  lies 
beyond  them,  but  merely  above  the  Tiber  and  its  ancient 
bed,  which  afterwards  became  the  Campus  Martius.  If  the 
coming  spring  is  favorable  to  my  making  wider  excursions 
in  the  neighborhood,  I shall  be  able  to  describe  more  fully 
the  unfavorable  site.  Even  now  I feel  the  most  heartfelt 


216 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


sympathy  with  the  grief  ar>rl  lameutation  of  the  women  of 
Aiba  when  they  saw  their  city  destroyed,  and  were  forced  to 
leave  its  beautiful  site,  the  choice  of  a wise  prince  and  leader, 
to  share  the  fogs  of  the  Tiber,  and  to  people  the  miserable 
Cceliaii  Hill,  from  which  their  eyes  still  viewed  the  paradise 
they  had  quitted. 

I know  as  yet  but  little  of  the  neighborhood,  but  I am 
perfectly  convinced  that  no  cit}'  of  the  ancient  world  was  so 
baxlly  situated  as  Rome.  No  wonder,  then,  that  the  Romans, 
fts  soon  as  they  had  sw.allowed  np  all  the  neighboring  states, 
went  out  of  it,  and,  with  their  villas,  returned  to  the  noble 
sites  of  the  cities  they  had  destroyed,  in  order  to  live  and  to 
enjoy  life. 

It  suggests  a very  pleasing  contemplation  to  think  how 
many  people  are  living  here  in  retirement,  calmly  occupied 
with  their  several  tastes  and  pursuits.  In  the  house  of  a 
clergyman,  who,  without  any  particular  natural  talent,  has 
nevertheless  devoted  himself  to  the  arts,  we  saw  most  inter- 
esting copies  of  some  excellent  paintings  which  he  had  im- 
itated in  miniature.  His  most  successful  attempt  was  after 
the  Last  Supper  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  The  moment  of 
time  is  when  the  Lord,  who  is  sitting  familiarly  at  supper 
with  his  disciples,  utters  the  awful  words,  “ One  of  you 
shall  betraj"  me.” 

Hopes  are  entertained  that  he  will  allow  an  engraving  to 
be  taken,  either  of  this,  or  of  another  copy  on  whicli  he  is  at 
present  engaged.  It  will  be  indeed  a rich  present  to  give  to 
the  great  public  a faithful  imitation  of  this  gem  of  art. 

A few  days  since  I visited,  at  the  Triuita  de’  Monti, 
Father  Jacqnier,  a Franciscan.  He  is  a Frenchman  by 
birth,  and  well  known  by  his  mathematical  writings  : and 
although  far  advanced  in  years,  is  still  very  agreeable  and 
intelligent.  He  has  been  acquainted  with  all  the  most  dis- 
tinguished men  of  his  day ; and  has  even  spent  several 
months  with  Voltaire,  who  had  a great  liking  for  him. 

I have  also  become  acquainted  with  many  more  of  such 
good,  sterling  men.  of  whom  countless  numbers  are  to  be 
found  here,  whom,  however,  a sort  of  professional  mistrust 
keeps  estranged  from  each  other.  The  book-trade  furnishes 
no  point  of  union,  and  literary  novelties  are  seldom  fruitful : 
and  so  it  befits  the  solitary  to  seek  out  the  hermits.  For 
since  the  acting  of  ” Aristodemo,”  in  whose  favor  we  made 
a very  lively  demonstration,  I have  been  again  much  sought 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


217 


after,  but  it  was  quite  clear  I was  not  sought  for  my  own 
sake : it  was  always  with  a view  to  strengthen  a party,  to 
use  me  as  an  instrument ; and  if  I had  been  willing  to  come 
forward  and  declare  my  side,  I also,  as  a phantom,  should 
for  a time  have  played  a short  part.  But  now,  since  they 
see  that  nothing  is  to  be  made  of  me,  they  let  me  pass  ; and 
so  I go  steadily  on  my  own  way. 

Indeed,  my  existence  has  lately  taken  in  some  ballast, 
M’hich  gives  it  the  necessary  gravity.  I do  not  now  frighten 
myself  with  the  spectres  which  used  so  often  to  play  before 
my  e^'es.  Be,  therefore,  of  good  heart.  You  will  keep  me 
above  water,  and  draw  me  back  again  to  j'ou. 

Rome,  Jan.  28,  1787. 

Two  considerations  which  more  or  less  affect  every  thing, 
and  to  which  one  is  compelled  at  every  moment  to  give  way, 
I must  not  fail  to  set  down,  now  that  they  have  become  quite 
clear  to  me. 

First  of  all,  then,  the  vast  and  yet  merely  fragmentary 
riches  of  this  city,  and  each  single  object  of  art,  are  constantly 
suggesting  the  question.  To  what  date  does  it  owe  its  exist- 
ence? Winckelmaun  urgently  calls  upon  us  to  separate 
epochs,  to  distinguish  the  different  styles  which  the  several 
masters  employed,  and  the  way  in  which,  in  the  course  of 
time,  they  gradually  perfected,  and  at  last  corrupted  them 
again.  Of  the  necessity  of  so  doing,  every  real  friend  of 
art  is  soon  thoroughly  convinced.  We  all  acknowledge  the 
justice  and  importance  of  the  requisition.  But  now  how  to 
attain  to  this  conviction  ? However  clearly  and  correctly  the 
notion  itself  may  be  conceived,  yet  without  long  prepara- 
tory labors  there  will  always  be  a degree  of  vagueness  and 
obscurity  as  to  the  particular  application.  A sure  eye, 
strengthened  by  many  years’  exercise,  is  above  all  else  ne- 
cessary. Here  hesitation  or  reserve  are  of  no  avail.  Atten- 
tion, however,  is  now  directed  to  this  point ; and  every  one 
who  is  in  any  degree  in  earnest  seems  convinced  that  in  this 
domain  a sure  judgment  is  impossible,  unless  it  has  been 
formed  by  historical  study. 

The  second  consideration  refers  exclusively  to  the  arts  of 
the  Greeks,  and  endeavors  to  ascertain  how  those  inimitable 
artists  proceeded  in  their  successful  attempts  to  evolve  from 
the  human  form  their  sj’stem  of  divine  types,  which  is  so 
perfect  and  complete,  that  neither  any  leading  character  nor 
any  intermediate  shade  or  transition  is  wanting.  For  my 


218 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


part,  I cannot  withhold  the  conjecture  that  they  proceeded 
according  to  the  same  laws  bj"  which  Nature  works,  and 
which  I am  endeavoring  to  discover.  Only,  there  is  in  them 
something  else,  which  1 know  not  how  to  express. 

RosrE,  Feb.  2,  1787. 

Of  the  beauty  of  a walk  through  Rome  by  moonlight  it  is 
impossible  to  form  a conception,  without  having  witnessed 
it.  All  single  objects  are  swallowed  up  by  the  great  masses 
of  light  and  shade,  and  nothing  but  grand  and  general  out- 
lines present  themselves  to  the  eye.  For  three  several  days 
we  have  enjoyed  to  the  full  the  brightest  and  most  glorious 
of  nights.  Peculiarly  beautiful,  at  such  a time,  is  the  Coli- 
seum. At  night  it  is  always  closed.  A hermit  dwells  in  a 
little  shrine  within  its  range,  and  beggars  of  all  kinds  nestle 
beneath  its  crumbling  arches  : the  latter  had  lit  a fire  on  the 
arena,  and  a gentle  wind  bore  down  the  smoke  to  the  ground, 
so  that  the  lower  portion  of  the  ruins  was  quite  hid  by  it ; 
while,  above,  the  vast  walls  stood  out  in  deeper  darkness 
before  the  e3"e.  As  we  stopped  at  the  gate  to  contemplate 
the  scene  through  the  iron  gratings,  the  moon  shone  brightly 
in  the  heavens  above.  Presently  the  smoke  found  its  way 
up  the  sides,  and  through  eveiy  chink  and  opening,  while 
the  moon  lit  it  up  like  a cloud.  The  sight  was  exceedingly 
glorious.  In  such  a light  one  ought  also  to  see  the  Pan- 
theon, the  Capitol,  the  Portico  of  St.  Peter’s,  and  the  grand 
streets  and  squares.  And  thus  sun  and  moon,  as  well 
as  the  human  mind,  have  here  to  do  a work  quite  different 
from  what  they  produce  elsewhere,  — here  where  vast  and 
yet  elegant  masses  present  themselves  to  their  rays. 

Eojie,  Feb.  13,  1787. 

I must  mention  a trifling  fall  of  luck,  even  though  it  is  but 
a little  one.  However,  all  luck,  whether  great  or  little,  is  of 
one  kind,  and  always  brings  a joy  with  it.  Near  the  Trinita 
de’  Monti,  the  ground  has  been  lately  dug  up  to  form  a 
foundation  for  the  new  Obelisk  ; and  now  the  whole  of  this 
region  is  choked  up  with  the  ruins  of  the  Gardens  of  Lucullus, 
which  subsequently  became  the  property  of  the  emperors. 
My  perruquier  was  passing  early  one  morning  by  the  spot, 
and  found  in  the  pile  of  earth  a flat  piece  of  burnt  clay  with 
some  figures  on  it.  Having  washed  it,  he  showed  it  to  me. 
I eagerly  secured  the  treasure.  It  is  not  quite  a span  long, 
and  seems  to  have  been  part  of  the  stem  of  a great  key. 


LETTERS  FROJil  ITALY. 


219 


Two  old  men  stand  before  an  altar : they  are  of  the  most 
beautiful  workmanship,  and  I am  uucoinmonly  delighted 
with  ray  new  acquisition.  Were  they  on  a cameo,  one  would 
greatly  like  to  use  it  as  a seal. 

I have  by  me  a collection  also  of  many  other  objects  ; and 
none  is  worthless  or  unmeaning,  — for  that  is  impossible  : 
here  every  thing  is  instructive  and  significant.  But  my  dear- 
est treasure,  however,  is  even  that  which  I carry  with  me  in 
my  soul,  and  which,  ever  growing,  is  capable  of  a still 
greater  growth. 


Rome,  Feb.  15,  1787. 

Before  departing  for  Naples,  I could  not  get  off  from 
another  public  reading  of  my  ‘ ‘ Iphigeiiia.  ’ ’ Madam  Angelica 
and  Hofrath  Reiffensteiu  were  the  auditory  ; and  even  Signor 
Zucchi  had  solicited  to  be  present,  because  it  was  the  wish 
of  his  wife.  During  the  reading,  however,  he  worked  away 
at  a great  architectural  plan ; for  he  is  very  skilful  in  exe- 
cuting drawings  of  this  kind,  and  especially  the  decorative 
parts.  He  went  with  Clerisseau  to  Dalmatia,  and  was  the 
associate  of  all  his  labors,  drawing  the  buildings  and  ruins  for 
the  plates  which  the  latter  published.  In  this  occupation 
he  learned  so  much  of  perspective  and  effect,  that  in  his  old 
days  he  is  able  to  amuse  himself  on  paper  in  a very  rational 
manner. 

The  tender  soul  of  Angelica  listened  to  the  piece  with 
incredible  profoundness  of  sympathy.  She  promised  me  a 
drawing  of  one  of  the  scenes,  which  I am  to  keep  in  remem- 
brance of  her.  And  now,  just  as  I am  about  to  quit  Rome, 
I begin  to  feel  myself  tenderly  attached  to  these  kind-hearted 
people.  It  is  a som-ce  of  mingled  feelings  of  pleasure  and 
regret  to  know  that  people  are  sorry  to  part  with  you. 

Rome,  Feb.  16,  1787. 

The  safe  arrival  of  “ Iphigeuia  ” has  been  announced  to 
me  in  a most  cheering  and  agreeable  way.  On  my  way 
to  the  opera,  a letter  from  a well-known  hand  was  brought  to 
me,  and  was  this  time  doubly  welcome,  having  been  sealed 
with  the  “ Lion,”  — a preraouitory  token  of  the  safe  arrival 
of  my  packet.  I hurried  into  the  opera-house,  and  bustled  to 
get  a place  among  the  strange  faces  beneath  the  great  chan- 
delier. At  this  moment  I felt  myself  drawn  so  close  to  my 
friends,  that  I could  almost  have  spi'ung  forward  to  embrace 
them.  From  my  heart  I thank  }'ou  even  for  having  sunply 


220 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


mentioned  the  arrival  of  the  “ Iphigenia.”  Ma}' your  next 
bo  accompanied  with  a few  kind  words  of  approval  ! 

Enclosed  is  the  list  of  those  among  whom  I wish  the  copies 
I am  to  expect  from  Gcische  to  be  distributed  ; for  although 
it  is  with  me  a perfect  matter  of  indifference  how  the  public 
may  receive  these  matters,  still  I hope  by  them  to  furnish 
some  gratification  to  m3’  friends  at  least. 

One  undertakes  too  much.  When  I think  of  my  last  four 
volumes  together,  I become  almost  gidd}’ : I am  obliged  to 
take  them  up  separately,  and  then  the  fit  passes  off. 

I should,  perhaps,  have  done  better  had  I kept  m3’  first 
resolution  to  send  these  things,  one  133*  one,  into  the  world, 
and  so  undertake  with  fresh  vigor  and  courage  the  new  sub- 
jects which  have  most  recently  aAvakeued  m3’  sympathy. 
Should  I not,  perhaps,  do  better  were  I to  write  the  •*  Iphi- 
genia at  Delphi,”  instead  of  amusing  myself  with  my  fanci- 
ful sketches  of  “ Tasso.”  However,  I have  bestowed  upon 
the  latter  too  much  of  my  thoughts  to  give  it  up,  and  let  it 
fall  to  the  ground. 

I am  sitting  in  the  ante-room,  near  the  chimney  : and  the 
warmth  of  a fire,  for  once  well  fed,  gives  me  courage  to 
commence  a fresh  sheet ; for  it  is  indeed  a glorious  thing  to 
be  able  with  our  newest  thoughts  to  reach  into  the  distance, 
and  by  words  to  conve3’  thither  an  idea  of  our  immediate 
state  and  circumstances.  The  weather  is  right  glorious,  the 
days  are  sensibly  lengthening,  the  laurels  and  box  are  in 
blossom,  as  also  are  the  almond-trees.  Earh’  this  morning 
I was  delighted  with  a strange  sight : I saw  in  the  distance 
tall,  pole-like  trees,  covered  over  and  over  with  the  loveliest 
violet  llowers.  On  a closer  examination  I found  it  was  the 
plant  known  in  our  hot-houses  as  the  .Judas-tree,  and  to 
botanists  as  the  cerds  siliquastrum.  Its  papilionaceous 
violet  blossoms  are  produced  directly  from  out  of  the  stem. 
The  stakes  which  I saw  had  been  lopped  last  winter,  and 
out  of  their  bark  well  shaped  and  deeply  tinted  flowers  were 
bursting  by  thousands.  The  daisies  are  also  springing  out 
of  the  ground  as  thick  as  ants : the  crocus  and  the  pheas- 
auTs-eye  are  more  rare,  but  even  on  this  account  more  rich 
and  ornamental. 

What  pleasures  and  what  lessons  the  more  southern  land 
will  impart  to  me,  and  what  new  results  will  arise  to  me 
from  tliem  ! With  the  things  of  nature  it  is  as  with  those 
of  art : much  as  is  written  about  them,  everv  one  who  sees 
them  forms  them  into  new  combinations  for  himself. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


221 


When  I think  of  Naples,  and  indeed  of  Sicily ; when  I 
read  their  history,  or  look  at  views  of  them,  — it  strikes  me 
as  singular  that  it  should  be  even  in  these  paradises  of  the 
world  that  the  volcanic  mountains  manifest  themselves  so 
violently,  for  thousands  of  years  alarming  and  confounding 
their  inhabitants. 

But  I willingly  drive  out  of  my  head  the  expectation  of 
these  much-prized  scenes,  in  order  that  they  may  not  lessen 
my  enjoyment  of  the  capital  of  the  whole  world  before  I 
leave  it. 

For  the  last  fourteen  days  I have  been  moving  about  from 
morning  to  night.  I am  raking  up  every  thing  I have  not  jmt 
seen.  I am  also  viewing,  for  a second  or  even  for  a third 
time,  all  the  most  important  objects  : and  they  are  all  arran- 
ging themselves  in  tolerable  order  within  my  mind  ; for  while 
the  chief  objects  are  taking  their  right  places,  there  is  space 
and  room  between  them  for  many  a less  important  one. 
enthusiasm  is  purifying  itself,  and  becoming  more  decided ; 
and  now,  at  last,  my  mind  can  rise  to  the  height  of  the 
greatest  and  purest  creations  of  art  with  calm  admiration. 

In  my  situation  one  is  tempted  to  envy  the  artist,  who,  by 
copies  and  imitations  of  some  kind  or  other,  can,  as  it  were, 
come  near  to  those  great  conceptions,  and  grasp  them  better 
than  one  who  merely  looks  at  and  reflects  upon  them.  In 
tlie  end,  however,  every  one  feels  he  must  do  his  best ; and 
so  I set  all  the  sails  of  my  intellect,  in  the  hope  of  getting 
round  this  coast. 

The  stove  is  at  present  thoroughly  warm,  and  piled  up 
with  excellent  coals,  which  is  seldom  the  case  with  us,  as  no 
one  scarcely  has  time  or  inclination  to  attend  to  the  fire  two 
whole  hours  together.  I will,  therefore,  avail  myself  of  this 
agreeable  temperature  to  rescue  from  my  tablets  a few  notes 
which  are  almost  obliterated. 

On  the  2d  of  February  we  attended  the  ceremony  of 
blessing  the  tapers  in  the  Sistine  Chapel.  I was  in  any  thing 
but  a good  humor,  and  sliortly  went  off  again  with  my 
friends  : for  I thought  to  myself,  those  are  the  very  candles, 
which,  for  these  three  hundred  years,  have  been  dimming 
those  noble  paintings  ; and  it  is  their  smoke,  which,  with 
priestly  impudence,  not  merely  hangs  in  clouds  around  the 
only  sun  of  art,  but  from  year  to  year  obscures  it  more  and 
more,  and  will  at  last  envelop  it  in  total  darkness. 

We  then  sought  the  open  air,  and  after  a long  walk  came 
upon  St.  Onofrio’s,  in  a corner  of  which  Tasso  is  buried.  In 


222 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


the  library  of  the  monastery,  there  is  a bust  of  him  : the  face 
is  of  wax,  aiul  I please  myself  with  fancying  that  it  was 
taken  after  death.  Although  the  lines  have  lost  some  of  their  i 
sharpness,  and  it  is  in  some  parts  injured,  still,  on  the  whole,  ' 
it  serves  better  than  any  other  I have  }'et  seen  to  convey  an  ' 
idea  of  a talented,  sensitive,  and  refined  but  reseiwed  char- 
acter. 

So  much  for  this  time.  I must  now  turn  to  glorious  ^ 
Volckmanu’s  second  part,  which  coutains  Rome,  and  which  I ' 
have  not  yet  seen.  Before  I start  for  Naples,  the  harvest 
must  be  housed : good  days  are  coming  for  binding  the 
sheaves. 

Rome,  Feb.  17,  1787. 

The  weather  is  incredibly  and  inexpressibly  beautiful.  For 
the  whole  of  February,  with  the  exception  of  four  rainy 
days,  a pure  bright  sk3^  and  the  days  towards  noon  almost 
too  warm  ! One  is  tempted  out  into  the  open  air : and  if.  till 
lately,  one  spent  all  his  time  in  the  city  among  gods  and 
heroes,  the  countiw  has  now  all  at  once  resumed  its  rights, 
and  one  can  scarce!}"  tear  one’s  self  from  the  surrounding  i 
scenes,  lit  up  as  they  are  with  the  most  glorious  daj’s.  i 
Many  a time  does  the  remembrance  come  across  me.  how  i 
our  northern  artists  labor  to  gain  a charm  from  thatched  i 
roofs  and  ruined  towers,  — how  they  turn  round  and  round  i 
every  bush  and  bourn,  and  crumbling  rock,  in  the  hope  of 
catching  some  picturesque  effect ; and  I have  been  quite  sur- 
prised at  myself,  when  I find  these  things  from  habit  still 
retaining  a hold  upon  me.  Be  this  as  it  ma}',  however,  with- 
in this  last  fortnight  I have  plucked  up  a little  courage,  and, 
sketch-book  in  hand,  have  wandered  up  and  down  the  hollows 
and  heights  of  the  neighboring  villas,  and,  without  much 
consideration,  have  sketched  off  a few  little  objects  char- 
acteristically southern  and  Roman,  and  am  now  trying  (if 
good  luck  will  come  to  my  aid)  to  give  them  the  requisite 
lights  and  shades. 

It  is  a singular  fact,  that  it  is  easv  enough  to  clearly  see 
and  to  acknowledge  what  is  good  and  better,  but  that  when 
one  attempts  to  make  tliem  his  own.  and  to  grasj)  them, 
somehow  or  other  the}"  slip  away,  as  it  were,  from  between 
one’s  fingers ; and  we  apprehend  them,  not  by  the  standard 
of  the  true  and  right,  but  in  accordance  with  our  previous 
habits  of  thought  and  tastes.  It  is  only  by  constant  prac- 
tice that  w"e  can  hope  to  improve  ; but  where  am  I to  find 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


223 


time  and  a collection  of  models?  Still,  I do  feel  myself  a 
little  improved  by  the  sincere  and  earnest  efforts  of  the  last 
fortnight. 

The  artists  are  ready  enough  with  their  hints  and  instruc- 
tions, for  I am  quick  in  apprehending  them.  But  then  the 
lesson  so  quickly  learnt  and  understood,  is  not  so  easily  put 
in  practice.  To  apprehend  quickly  is,  forsooth,  the  attribute 
of  the  mind ; but  correctly  to  execute  that,  requires  the  prac- 
tice of  a life. 

And  3’et  the  amateur,  however  weak  may  be  his  efforts  at 
imitation,  need  not  be  discouraged.  The  few  lines  which  I 
scratch  upon  the  paper,  often  hastily,  seldom  correctly  facili- 
tate any  conception  of  sensible  objects  ; for  one  advances 
to  an  idea  more  surely  and  more  steadily,  the  more  accur- 
ately and  precisely  he  considers  individual  objects. 

Only  it  will  not  do  to  measure  one’s  self  with  artists  : every 
one  must  go  on  in  his  own  style.  For  nature  has  made 
provision  for  all  her  children : the  meanest  is  not  hindered 
in  its  existence,  even  by  that  of  the  most  excellent.  “ A 
little  man  is  still  a man ; ” and  with  this  remark  we  will  let 
the  matter  drop. 

I have  seen  the  sea  twice,  — first  the  Adriatic,  then  the 
Mediterranean,  — but  only  just  to  look  at  it.  In  Naples  we 
hope  to  become  better  acquainted  with  it.  All  withiu  me 
seems  suddenly  to  urge  me  on : why  not  sooner  — why  not 
at  a less  sacrifice?  How  many  thousand  things,  some  quite 
new,  and  from  the  beginning,  I could  still  communicate  ! 

Rome,  Feb.  17,  1787. 

Evening  after  the  follies  of  the  Carnival. 

I am  sorry  to  go  away  and  leave  Moritz  alone.  He  is  going 
on  well ; but  when  he  is  left  to  himself,  he  imrhediately  shuts 
himself  up  and  is  lost  to  the  world.  I have  therefore  ex- 
horted him  to  write  to  Herder : the  letter  is  enclosed.  I 
should  wish  for  an  answer  which  may  be  serviceable  and 
helpful  to  him.  He  is  a strange  good  fellow  : he  would  have 
been  far  more  so,  had  he  occasionally  met  with  a friend  sen- 
■ sible  and  affectionate  enough  to  enlighten  him  as  to  his  true 
state.  At  present  he  could  not  form  an  acquaintance  likely 
to  be  more  blessed  to  him  than  Herder’s,  if  permitted  fre- 
quently to  write  to  him.  He  is  at  this  moment  engaged  on  a 
very  laudable  antiquarian  attempt,  which  well  deserves  to  be 
encouraged.  Friend  Herder  could  scarcely  bestow  his  cares 
better,  nor  sow  his  good  advice  on  more  grateful  soil. 


224 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


1 


The  great  portrait  of  myself  which  Tischbein  has  taken  in 
hand  begins  already  to-  stand  out  from  the  canvas.  The 
painter  has  employed  a clever  statuary  to  make  him  a little 
model  in  clay,  which  is  elegantly  draped  with  the  mantle. 
“VVith  this  he  is  working  awaj-  diligently  ; for  it  must,  he  says, 
be  brought  to  a certain  point  before  we  set  out  for  Naples, 
and  it  takes  no  little  time  merely  to  cover  so  large  a field  of 
cauvas  with  colors. 

Rome,  Feb.  19, 1787. 

The  weather  continues  to  be  finer  than  words  can  express. 
This  has  been  a day  miserably  wasted  among  fools.  At 
night-fall  I betook  myself  to  the  Villa  Medici.  A new  moon 
has  just  shone  upon  us,  and  below  the  slender  crescent  I 
could  with  the  naked  eye  discern  almost  the  whole  of  the 
dark  disc  through  the  perspective.  Over  the  earth  hangs 
that  haze  of  the  day  which  the  paintings  of  Claude  have  ren- 
dered so  well  known.  lu  Nature,  hower^er,  the  phenomenon  : 
is  perhaps  nowhere  so  beautiful  as  it  is  here.  Flowers  are 
now  springing  out  of  the  earth,  and  the  trees  putting  forth  : 
blossoms  which  hitherto  I have  been  unacquainted  with.  The  ' 
almonds  are  in  blossom,  and  between  the  dark  green  oaks  ■ 
the}'  make  an  appearance  as  beautiful  as  it  is  new  to  me. 
The  sk}'  is  like  a bright  blue  taffeta  in  the  sunshine ; what 
will  it  be  in  Naples?  Almost  eveiy  thing  here  is  already 
green.  Mj'  botanical  whims  gain  food  and  strength  from  all 
around  ; and  I am  on  the  wa}’  to  discover  new  and  beautiful 
connections  by  means  of  which  Nature  — that  vast  prodigy 
which  yet  is  novdiere  visible  — evolves  the  most  manifold 
varieties  out  of  the  most  simple. 

Vesuvius  is  throwing  out  both  ashes  and  stones : in  the 
evening  its  summit  appears  to  glow.  May  travailing  Nature 
only  favor  us  with  a stream  of  lava  ! I can  scarcely  endure 
to  w'ait  till  it  shall  be  really  my  lot  to  witness  such  grand 
phenomena. 

^OME.  Feb.  21, 1787. 

Asb  Wednesday. 

The  folly  is  now  at  an  end.  The  countless  lights  of  yes- 
terday evening  were,  however,  a strange  spectacle.  One  must 
have  seen  the  Carnival  in  Rome  to  get  entirely  rid  of  the  wish 
to  see  it  again.  Nothing  can  be  written  of  it : as  a subject  of 
conversation  it  may  be  amusing  enough.  The  most  unpleas- 
ant feeling  about  it  is,  that  real  iuterual  joy  is  wanting. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


225 


There  is  a lack  of  money,  Tvhich  prevents  their  enjoying  what 
morsel  of  pleasure  they  might  otherwise  still  feel  in  it.  The 
great  are  economical,  and  hold  back  ; those  of  the  middle 
ranks  are  without  the  means ; and  the  populace  without 
spring  or  elasticity.  In  the  last  days  there  was  an  incredible 
tumult,  but  no  heartfelt  joj’.  The  sky,  so  infinitely  fine  and 
clear,  looked  down  nobly  and  innocently  upon  the  mumme- 
ries. 

However,  as  imitation  is  out  of  the  question,  and  cannot 
be  thought  of  here,  I send  you,  to  amuse  the  children,  some 
drawings  of  carnival  masks,  and  some  ancient  Roman  cos- 
tumes, which  are  also  colored,  as  they  may  serve  to  supply  a 
missing  chapter  in  the  “ Orbis  Rictus.” 


Rome,  Feb.  21,  1787. 

I snatch  a few  moments  in  the  intervals  of  packing,  to 
mention  some  particulars  which  I have  hitherto  omitted. 
To-morrow  we  set  off  for  Naples.  I am  already  delighting 
myself  with  the  new  scenery,  which  I promise  myself  will  be 
inexpressibly  beautiful,  and  hope,  in  this  paradise  of  nature, 
to  win  fresh  freedom  and  pleasure  for  the  study  of  ancient 
art  on  ni}'  return  to  sober  Rome. 

Racking  up  is  light  work  to  me  ; since  I can  now  do  it  with 
a merrier  heart  than  I had  some  six  months  ago,  when  I had 
to  tear  myself  from  all  that  was  most  dear  and  precious  to 
me.  Yes,  it  is  now  full^six  months  since;  and  of  the  four 
mouths  I have  spent  in  Rome,  not  a moment  has  been  lost. 
The  boast  may  sound  big : nevertheless,  it  does  not  say 
too  much. 

That  “Iphigenia”  has  arrived,  I know.  May  I learn,  at 
the  foot  of  Vesuvius,  that  it  has  met  with  a hearty  welcome  ! 

That  Tischbein,  who  possesses  as  glorious  an  eye  for  na- 
ture as  for  art,  is  to  accompany  me  on  this  journey,  is  to 
me  the  subject  of  great  congratulation  : still,  as  genuine 
Germans,  we  cannot  throw  aside  all  purposes  and  thoughts 
of  work.  We  have  bought  the  best  drawing-paper,  and 
intend  to  sketch  away ; although,  in  all  probabilit}’,  the 
multitude,  the  beauty,  and  the  splendor  of  the  objects,  will 
choke  our  good  intentions. 

One  conquest  I have  gained  over  myself.  Of  all  my 
unfinished  poetical  works,  I shall  take  with  me  none  but  the 
“Tasso,”  of  which  I have  the  best  hopes.  If  I could  only 
know  what  you  are  now  saying  to  “ Iphigenia,”  your  remarks 
might  be  some  guide  to  me  in  mj'  present  labors  ; for  the  plan 


226 


LETTERS  FKO]M  ITALY. 


of  “ Tasso  ” is  very  similar,  the  subject  still  more  confined,  ] f 
and  in  its  several  parts  will  be  even  still  more  elaborately  , 
finished.  Still,  I cannot  tell  as  yet  what  it  will  eventually  ^ ' 
prove.  What  already  exists  of  it  must  be  destroyed.  It  ‘ 
is,  perhaps,  somewhat  tediously  drawn  out ; and  neither  the 
characters  nor  the  plot,  nor  the  tone  of  it,  are  at  all  in  har-  ■. 
mony  with  my  present  views. 

I*n  making  a clearance  I have  fallen  upon  some  of  j'our  ' i 
letters  ; and,  in  reading  them  over,  I have  just  lighted  upon  a 
reproach,  that  in  my  letters  I contradict  myself.  It  may  be  ' 
so,  but  I was  not  aware  of  it ; for,  as  soon  as  I have  written 
a letter,  I immediately  send  it  off.  I must,  however,  confess 
that  nothing  seems  to  me  more  likely,  for  I have  lately  been 
tossed  about  b}’  mighty  spirits ; and,  therefore,  it  is  quite 
natural  if  at  times  I know  not  where  I am  standing. 

A story  is  told  of  a skipper,  who,  overtaken  at  sea  by  a 
stormy  night,  determined  to  steer  for  port.  His  little  boy,  ( 
who  in  the  dark  was  crouching  by  him,  asked  him,  ‘‘What 
silly  light  is  that  which  I see,  — at  one  time  above  us,  and  at  i 
another  below  us  ? ” His  father  promised  to  explain  it  to 
him  some  otlier  day  ; and  then  he  told  him  that  it  was  the 
beacon  of  the  lighthouse,  which  to  the  eye,  now  raised,  now  | 
depressed,  by  the  wild  waves,  appeared  accordingly,  some-  | 
times  above,  and  sometimes  below.  I,  too,  am  steeling  on  a 
passion-tossed  sea  for  the  harbor  ; and  if  I can  only  manage 
to  hold  steadily  iu  my  eje  the  gleam  of  the  beacon,  however 
it  may  seem  to  change  its  place,  I shall  at  last  enjoy  the 
wished-for  -shore. 

When  one  is  on  the  eve  of  a departure,  every  earlier  sepa- 
ration, and  also  that  last  one  of  all,  and  which  is  j’et  to  be, 
comes  involuntarily  into  one’s  thoughts ; and  so,  on  this 
occasion,  the  reflection  enforces  itself  on  my  mind  more 
strongly  than  ever,  that  man  is  always  making  far  too  great 
and  too  many  preparations  for  life.  Thus  we  — Tischbein 
and  I,  that  is — must  soon  turn  our  backs  upon  many  a pre- 
cious and  glorious  object,  and  even  upon  our  well-furnished 
museum.  In  it  there  are  now  standing  three  Junos  for  com- 
parison, side  by  side  ; and  yet  we  part  from  them  as  though 
they  were  not. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


227 


NAPLES. 


Velletri,  Feb.  22, 1787. 

We  arrived  here  in  good  time.  The  day  before  yesterday 
the  weather  became  gloomy,  and  our  fine  days  were  over- 
cast : still,  some  signs  of  the  air  seemed  to  promise  that  it 
would  soon  clear  up  again ; and  so,  indeed,  it  turned  out. 
Tlie  clouds  gradually  broke  ; here  and  there  appeared  the 
blue  sky  ; and  at  last  the  sun  shone  full  on  our  journey.  We 
came  through  Albano,  after  having  stopped  before  Genzano, 
at  the  entrance  of  a park,  which  the  owner.  Prince  Chigi,  in 
a very  strange  way  holds,  but  does  not  keep  up,  on  which 
account  he  will  not  allow  any  one  to  enter  it.  In  it  a time 
wilderness  has  been  formed.  Trees  and  shrubs,  plants  and 
weeds,  grow,  wither,  fall,  and  rot  at  pleasure.  That  is  all 
right,  and,  indeed,  could  not  be  better.  The  expanse  before 
the  entrance  is  inexpressibly  fine.  A high  wall  encloses  the 
valley  ; a lattice  gate  affords  a view  into  it ; then  the  hill 
ascends,  upon  which,  above  you,  stands  the  castle. 

But  now  I dare  not  attempt  to  go  on  with  the  description  ; 
and  I can  merely  say,  that  at  the  very  moment  when  from 
the  summit  we  caught  sight  of  the  mountains  of  Sezza,  the 
Pontine  Marshes,  the  sea  and  its  islands,  a heavy  passing 
shower  was  traversing  the  Marshes  towards  the  sea ; and  the 
light  and  shade,  constantly  changing  and  moving,  wonder- 
fully enlivened  and  variegated  the  drear}'  plain.  The  effect 
was  beautifully  heightened  by  the  sun’s  beams,  which  lit  up 
with  various  hues  the  columns  of  smoke  as  they  ascended 
from  scattered  and  scarcely  visible  cottages. 

Velletri  is  agreeably  situated  on  a volcanic  hill,  which 
towards  the  north  alone  is  connected  with  other  hills,  and 
towards  three  points  of  the  heavens  commands  a wide  and 
uninterrupted  prospect. 

We  here  visited  the  cabinet  of  the  Cavaliere  Borgia,  who, 
favored  by  his  relationship  with  the  cardinal,  has  managed, 
by  means  of  the  Propaganda,  to  collect  some  valuable  an- 
tiquities and  other  curiosities  — Egj'ptian  charms  ; idols  cut 
out  of  the  hardest  rock ; some  small  figures  in  metal,  of  ear- 
lier or  later  dates  ; some  pieces  of  statuary  of  burnt  clay, 
with  figures  in  low  relief,  which  were  dug  up  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  on  the  authority  of  which,  one  is  almost  tempted 
to  ascribe  to  the  ancient  indigenous  population  a style  of 
their  own  in  art. 


228 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


Of  other  kinds  of  varieties,  there  are  numerous  specimens 
in  this  museum.  I noticed  two  Chinese  black-painted  boxes  : 
on  the  sides  of  one,  there  was  delineated  the  whole  manage- 
ment of  the  silk- worm,  and  on  the  other  the  cultivation  of 
rice.  Both  subjects  were  very  nicely  conceived,  and  worked 
out  with  the  utmost  minuteness.  Both  the  boxes  and  their 
covers  are  eminently  beautiful,  and,  as  well  as  the  book  in 
the  library  of  the  Propaganda,  which  I have  already  jjraised, 
are  well  worth  seeing. 

It  is  certainly  inexplicable  that  these  treasures  should  be 
within  so  short  a distance  of  Rome,  and  yet  not  be  more 
frequently  visited  ; but  perhaps  the  difficulty  and  inconven- 
ience of  getting  to  these  regions,  and  the  attraction  of  the 
magic  circle  of  Rome,  may  serve  to  excuse  the  fact.  As  we 
arrived  at  the  inn,  some  women,  who  were  sitting  before  the 
doors  of  their  houses,  called  out  to  us,  and  asked  if  we  wished 
to  buy  any  antiquities  ; and  then,  as  we  showed  a pretty 
strong  hankering  after  them,  they  brought  out  some  old  ket- 
tles, fire-tongs,  and  such  like  utensils,  and  were  ready  to  die 
with  laughing  at  having  made  fools  of  us.  lYhen  we  seemed 
a little  put  out,  our  guide  assured  us,  to  our  comfort,  that  it 
was  a customary  joke,  and  that  all  strangers  had  to  submit 
to  it. 

I am  writing  this  in  very  miserable  quarters,  and  feel 
neither  strength  nor  humor  to  make  it  any  longer : therefore, 

I bid  you  a very  good  night. 

Fosrni,  Feb.  23,  1787. 

We  were  oh  the  road  very  early,  — by  three  in  the  morn- 
ing. As  the  day  broke,  we  found  ourselves  on  the  Pontine 
Marshes,  which  have  not  by  any  means  so  ill  an  appearance 
as  the  common  description  in  Rome  would  make  out.  Of 
course,  bj’  merely  passing  once  over  the  IMarshes.  it  is  not  ; 
possible  to  judge  of  so  great  an  undertaking  as  that  of 
the  intended  draining  of  them,  which  necessarily  requires 
time  to  test  its  merits  : still,  it  does  appear  to  me  that  the 
works,  which  have  been  commenced  by  the  Pope’s  orders, 
will,  to  a great  extent  at  least,  attain  the  desired  end. 
Conceive  to  yourself  a wide  valley,  which,  as  it  stretches 
from  north  to  south,  has  but  a very  slight  fall,  but  which,  1 
towards  the  east  and  the  mountains,  is  extremely  low.  but  : 
rises  again  considerably  towards  the  sea  on  the  west.  Ruu- 
ning  in  a straight  line  through  the  whole  length  of  it.  the 
ancient  Via  Appia  has  been  restored.  On  the  right  of  tlie 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


229 


latter  the  principal  drain  has  been  cnt,  and  in  it  the  water 
flows  with  a rapid  fall.  B3"  means  of  it  the  tract  of  land  to 
the  right  has  been  drained,  and  is  now  profitablj^  cultivated. 
As  far  as  the  eye  can  see,  it  is  either  already  brought  into 
cultivation,  or  evidently  might  be  so  if  farmers  could  be 
found  to  take  it,  with  the  exception  of  one  spot  which  lies 
extremely  low. 

The  left  side,  which  stretches  towards  the  mountains,  is 
more  difficult  to  be  managed.  Here,  however,  cross-drains 
pass  under  the  raised  waj"  into  the  chief  drain  : as,  however, 
the  surface  sinks  again  towards  the  mountains,  it  is  impossi- 
ble bv  this  means  to  cany  off  the  water  entirely.  To  meet 
this  difficulty,  it  is  proposed,  I was  told,  to  cut  another  lead- 
ing drain  along  the  foot  of  the  mountains.  Large  patches, 
especially  towards  Terracina,  are  thinly  planted  with  wil- 
lows and  poplars. 

The  posting-stations  consist  merely  of  long  thatched  sheds. 
Tischbein  sketched  one  of  them,  and  enjoyed  for  his  reward 
a gratification  which  only  he  could  enjoy.  A white  horse 
having  broken  loose,  had  fled  to  the  drained  lauds.  Enjoj'- 
ing  its  liberty',  it  was  galloping  up  and  dov.'ii  on  the  brown 
turf  like  a flash  of  lightning.  In  truth,  it  -was  a glorious 
sight,  rendered  significant  by  Tischbein’s  rapture. 

At  the  point  where  the  ancient  village  of  Meza  once  stood, 
the  Pope  has  caused  to  be  built  a large  and  fine  building, 
which  indicates  the  centre  of  the  level.  The  sight  of  it  in- 
creases one’s  hopes  and  confidence  of  the  success  of  the 
whole  undertaking.  While  thus  we  travelled  on,  we  kept  up 
a lively  conversation  together,  not  forgetting  the  warning, 
that  on  this  journey  one  must  not  go  to  sleep  ; and,  in  fact, 
we  were  strongly  enough  reminded  of  the  danger  of  the 
atmosphere,  by  the  blue  vapor  which,  even  in  this  season 
of  the  }'ear,  hangs  above  the  ground.  On  this  account  the 
more  delightful,  as  it  was  the  more  longed  for,  was  the  rocky 
site  of  Terracina  ; and  scarcety'  had  we  congratulated  our- 
selves at  the  sight  of  it.  than  we  caught  a view  of  the  sea 
bej'oud.  Immediately  afterwards  the  other  side  of  the  moun- 
tain cit3"  presented  to  our  eye  a vegetation  quite  new  to  us. 
The  Indian  figs  were  pushing  their  large  fleshy  leaves  amidst 
the  graj'  green  of  dwarf  mju’tles,  the  j'cllowish  green  of  the 
pomegranate,  and  the  pale  green  of  the  olive.  As  we  passed 
along,  we  noticed  some  flowers  and  shrubs  such  as  we  had 
never  seen  before.  On  the  meadows  the  narcissus  and  tlie 
adonis  were  in  flower.  For  a long  time  the  sea  was  on  our 


230 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


right,  while  close  to  us  on  the  left  ran  an  unbroken  range  I 
of  limestone  rocks.  It  is  a continuation  of  the  Apennines,  I 
running  down  from  Tivoli  and  touching  the  sea,  which  they  " 
do  not  leave  again  till  you  reach  the  Campagna  di  Roinana, 
where  it  is  succeeded  by  the  volcanic  formations  of  Frescati, 
Alba,  and  Vclletri,  and  lastly  by  the  Pontine  Marshes.  1 
Monte  Circello,  with  the  opposite  promontory  of  Terracina,  I 
where  the  Pontine  Marshes  terminate,  probably  consists  also  |v 
of  a system  of  chalk  rocks.  f 

We  left  the  seacoast,  and  soon  reached  the  charming  plain 
of  Fondi.  Eveiy  one  must  admire  this  little  spot  of  fertile 
and  well  cultivated  land,  enclosed  with  hills,  which  them- 
selves are  by  no  means  Avild.  Oranges  in  great  numbers 
are  still  hanging  on  the  ti’ees  ; the  crops,  all  of  Avheat,  are 
beautifully  green  ; olives  are  growing  in  the  fields ; and  the 
little  city  is  in  the  bottom.  A palm-tree,  which  stood  out  a 
marked  oliject  in  the  scenery,  received  our  greetings.  .So 
much  for  this  evening.  Pardon  the  scrawl.  I must  write  i 
Avithout  thinking,  for  writing’s  sake.  The  objects  are  too 
numerous,  my  i-esting-place  too  wretched,  and  yet  my  desire 
to  commit  something  to  paper  too  great.  With  nightfall  we 
reached  this  place,  and  it  is  uoav  time  to  go  to  rest. 

S.  Agata.  Feb.  24,  1787. 

Although  in  a wretchedly  cold  chamber,  I must  yet  try  and 
give  you  some  account  of  a beautiful  day.  It  was  already 
nearly  light  Avhen  we  drove  out  of  Fondi,  and  we  were  forth-  ; 
Avith  greeted  by  the  orange-trees  Avhich  hang  OA'er  the  walls 
on  both  sides  of  our  road.  The  trees  are  loaded  with  such 
numbers  as  can  only  be  imagiueiL  and  not  expressed. 
ToAvards  the  top  the  young  leaf  is  yellowish,  but  below,  and 
in  the  middle,  of  sappy  green.  Mignon  was  quite  right  to 
long  for  them. 

After  this  we  traA’elled  through  clean  and  well-worked 
fields  of  Avheat,  planted  at  conA'enient  distances  with  olive- 
trees.  A soft  breeze  was  moving,  and  brought  to  the  light 
the  silveiy  under-surface  of  the  leaves,  as  the  branches 
swayed  gently  and  elegantly.  It  was  a gray  morning  : a north 
wind  promised  soon  to  dispel  all  the  clouds. 

Tlien  the  road  entered  a A’alley  between  stony  but  well- 
dressed  fields,  — the  crops  of  the  most  beautiful  green.  At 
certain  spots  one  saw  some  room}’  places,  paA’ed.  and  sur- 
rounded with  low  w’alls  : on  these  the  corn,  which  is  never 
carried  home  in  sheaves,  is  thrashed  out  at  once.  The  val- 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


231 


ley  gi-julually  narrows,  and  the  road  becomes  mountainous, 
bare  rocks  of  limestone  standing  on  both  sides  of  us.  A 
violent  storm  followed  us,  with  a fall  of  sleet,  which  thawed 
very  slowly. 

The  walls,  of  an  ancient  style,  built  after  the  pattern  of 
net-work,  charmed  us  exceedingly.  On  the  heights  the  soil 
is  rocky,  but  nevertheless  planted  with  olive-trees  wherever 
there  is  the  smallest  patch  of  soil  to  receive  them.  Next  we 
drove  over  a plain  covered  with  olive-trees,  and  then  through 
a small  town.  We  here  noticed  altars,  ancient  tomb-stones, 
and  fragments  of  every  kind,  built  up  in  the  walls  of  the 
pleasure-houses  in  the  gardens ; then  the  lower  stories  of 
ancient  villas,  once  excellently  built,  but  now  filled  up  with 
earth,  and  overgrown  with  olives.  At  last  we  caught  a sight 
of  Vesuvius,  with  a cloud  of  smoke  resting  on  its  brow. 

Molo  di  Gaeta  greeted  us  again  with  the  richest  of  orange- 
trees  : we  remained  there  some  hours.  The  creek  before  the 
town,  which  the  tide  flows  up  to,  affords  one  of  the  finest 
views.  Following  the  line  of  coast  on  the  right,  till  the  eye 
reaches  at  last  the  horn  of  the  crescent,  one  sees  at  a mod- 
erate distance  the  fortress  of  Giieta  on  the  rocks.  The  left 
horn  stretches  out  still  farther,  presenting  to  the  beholder 
first  of  all  a line  of  mountains,  then  Vesuvius,  and,  beyond 
all,  the  islands.  Ischia  lies  before  you,  nearly  in  the  centre. 

Here  I found  on  the  shore,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  a 
starfish  and  an  echinus  thrown  up  by  the  sea ; a beautiful 
green  leaf  {tethys  foUacea) , smooth  as  the  finest  bath-paper  ; 
and  other  remarkable  rubble-stones,  the  most  common  being 
limestone,  but  occasionally  also  serpentine,  jasper,  quartz, 
granite,  brecciau  pebbles,  i)orphyry,  marble  of  different 
kinds,  and  glass  of  a blue  and  green  color.  The  two  last- 
mentioned  specimens  are  scarcely  productions  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. They  are  probably  the  debris  of  ancient  buildings  ; 
and  thus  we  have  seen  the  waves  before  our  eyes  playing 
with  the  splendors  of  the  ancient  world.  We  tarried  a while, 
and  pleased  ourselves  with  meditating  on  the  nature  of  man. 
whose  hopes,  whether  in  the  civilized  or  savage  state,  are  so 
soon  disappointed. 

Departing  from  Molo,  the  traveller  still  has  a beautiful 
prospect,  even  after  his  quitting  the  sea.  The  last  glimpse  of 
it  was  a lovely  bay,  of  which  we  took  a sketch.  We  now 
came  upon  a good  fruit  country,  with  hedges  of  aloes.  We 
noticed  an  aqueduct,  which  ran  from  the  mountains  over 
some  nameless  and  orderless  masses  of  ruins. 


232 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


Next  comes  the  feny  over  tlie  Garigliano.  After  crossing 
it,  3'ou  pass  through  tolerabl}"  fruitful  districts,  till  you  reach 
the  mountains.  Nothing  striking.  At  length  the  first  hill 
of  lava.  Here  begins  an  extensive  and  glorious  district  of 
hill  and  vale,  over  which  the  snow'y  summits  are  towering  in 
the  distance.  On  the  nearest  eminence,  lies  a long  town, 
which  strikes  the  eye  with  an  agreeable  effect.  In  the  val- 
ley, lies  S.  Agata,  a considerable  inn,  where  a cheerful  fire 
w^as  burning  in  a chimne}'  arranged  as  a cabinet : however, 
our  room  is  cold,  — no  window,  only  shutters,  which  I am 
just  hastening  to  close. 


Naples,  Feb  25,  1787. 

And  here  we  are  happily  arrived  at  last,  and  with  good 
omens.  Of  our  day’s  journej'  thus  much  only.  "We  left 
S.  Agata  at  sunrise,  a violent  north-east  wind  blowing  on 
our  baeks,  which  continued  the  whole  day  through.  It  was 
not  till  noon  that  it  was  master  of  the  clouds.  AVe  suffered 
much  from  the  cold. 

Our  road  again  laj'  among  and  over  volcanic  hills,  among 
which  I did  not  notice  many  limestone  rocks.  At  last  we 
reached  the  plains  of  Capua,  and  shortly  afterwards  Capua 
itself,  where  we  halted  at  noon.  In  the  afternoon  a beau- 
tiful but  flat  countiy  lay  stretched  before  us.  The  road  is 
broad,  and  runs  through  fields  of  green  corn,  so  even  that 
it  looked  like  a carpet,  and  was  at  least  a span  high.  Along 
the  fields  are  planted  rows  of  poplars,  from  which  the 
branches  are  lopped  to  a great  height,  that  the  vines  may 
run  up  them : this  is  the  case  all  the  way  to  Naples.  The 
soil  is  excellent,  light,  loose,  afld  well  worked.  The  vine- 
stocks  are  of  extraordinary  strength  and  height,  and  theii 
shoots  hang  in  festoons  like  nets  from  tree  to  tree. 

Vesuvius  was  all  the  while  on  our  left,  with  a strong  smoke  ; 
and  I felt  a quiet  joj"  to  think  that  at  last  I beheld  with  my 
own  eyes  this  most  remarkable  object.  The  sky  became 
clearer  and  clearer,  and  at  length  the  sun  shone  quite  hot 
into  our  narrow,  rolling  lodging.  The  atmosphere  was  per- 
fectly clear  and  bright  as  we  approached  Naples;  and  we 
now  found  ourselves,  in  truth,  in  quite  another  world.  The 
houses,  with  flat  roofs,  at  oiiee  bespeak  a different  climate. 
Inside,  perhaps,  thej'  ma}"  not  be  A^eiy  comfortable.  Every 
one  is  in  the  streets,  or  sitting  in  tlie  sun  as  long  as  it  shines. 
The  Neapolitan  believes  himself  to  be  in  possession  of  Para- 
dise, and  entertains  a veiy  melancholy  opinion  of  our  north- 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


233 


ern  lands.  “ Sempre  neve,  caso  di  legno,  gran  ignoranza,  ma 
danari  assai.”  Such  is  the  picture  tliey  draw  of  our  condition. 
Interpreted  for  the  benefit  of  all  our  German  folk,  it  means, 
“Always  snow,  wooden  houses,  great  ignorance,  but  money 
enough.” 

Naples  at  first  sight  leaves  a free,  cheerful,  and  lively  im- 
pression. Numberless  beings  are  passing  and  repassiug  each 
other:  the  king  is  gone  hunting,  the  queen  promising';  and 
so  things  could  not  be  better. 


Naples,  Monday,  Feb.  26,  1787. 

'•‘■Alla  Locanda  del  Sgr.  Moriconi  al  Largo  del  Castello.” 
Under  this  address,  no  less  cheerful  than  high-sounding, 
letters  from  all  the  four  quarters  of  heaven  will  henceforth 
find  us.  Round  the  castle,  which  lies  by  the  sea,  there 
stretches  a large  open  space,  which,  although  surrounded  on 
all  sides  with  houses,  is  not  called  a square,  or  piazza,  but  a 
largo,  or  expanse.  Perhaps  the  name  is  derived  from 
ancient  times,  when  it  was  still  an  open  and  unenclosed 
country.  Here,  in  a corner  house  on  one  side  of  the  largo, 
we  have  taken  up  our  lodgings  in  a corner  room,  which  com- 
mands a free  and  lively  view  of  the  ever  moving  surface. 
An  iron  balcony  runs  before  several  windows,  and  even 
round  the  corner.  One  would  never  leave  it  if  the  sharp 
wind  were  not  extremely  cutting. 

The  room  is  cheerfully  decorated,  especially  the  celling, 
whose  arabesques  of  a hundred  compartments  bear  witness  to 
the  proximity  of  Pompeii  and  Herculaneum.  Now,  all  this 
is  very  well  and  very  fine  ; but  there  is  no  fireplace,  no 
chimney,  and  yet  February  exercises  even  here  its  rights. 
I expressed  a wish  for  something  to  w'arra  me.  They 
brought  in  a tripod  of  sufficient  height  from  the  ground  for 
one  conveniently  to  hold  one’s  hands  over  it : on  it  was 
placed  a shallow  brasier,  full  of  extremely  fine  charcoal, 
red-hot,  but  covered  smoothly  over  with  ashes.  AYe  now 
found  it  an  advantage  to  be  able  to  manage  this  process  of 
domestic  economy  : we  had  learned  that  at  Rome.  With 
the  ring  of  a key,  from  time  to  time,  one  cautiously  draws 
away  the  ashes  of  the  surface,  so  that  a few  of  the  embers 
may  be  exposed  to  the  free  air.  AYere  you  impatiently  to 
stir  up  the  glowing  coals,  you  would  no  doubt  experience  for 
a few  moments  great  warmth ; but  you  would  in  a short  time 
exhaust  the  fuel,  and  then  you  must  pay  a certain  sum  to 
have  the  brasier  filled  again. 


234 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


I did  not  feel  quite  well,  and  could  have  wished  for  more 
of  ease  and  comfort.  A reed  matting  was  all  there  was  to 
protect  one’s  feet  from  the  stone  floor : skins  are  not  usual. 
I determined  to  put  on  a sailor’s  cloak  which  we  had  brought 
with  us  in  fun  ; and  it  did  me  good  service,  especially  when 
I tied  it  round  my  body  with  the  rope  of  my  box.  I must 
have  looked  very  comical,  something  between  a sailor  and  a 
capuchin.  When  Tischbein  came  back  frorn  visiting  some 
of  his  friends,  and  found  me  in  this  dress,  he  could  not 
refrain  from  laughing. 


Naples,  Feb.  27,  1787. 

Yesterday  I kept  quietly  at  home,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  a 
slight  bodily  ailment.  To-day  has  been  a regular  carouse, 
and  the  time  passed  rapidly  while  we  visited  the  most 
glorious  objects.  Let  man  talk,  describe,  and  paint  as  he 
may,  — to  be  here  is  more  than  all.  The  shore,  the  creeks, 
and  the  bay,  Vesuvius,  the  cit}q  the  suburbs,  the  castles,  the 
atmosphere  ! In  the  evening,  too,  we  went  into  the  Grotto 
of  Posilippo,  while  the  setting  sun  was  shining  into  it  from 
the  other  side.  I can  pardon  all  who  lose  their  senses  in 
Naples  ; and  1 remember  with  emotion  my  father,  who  retained 
to  the  last  an  indelible  impression  of  those  objects  which 
to-day  I have  cast  e}ms  upon  for  the  fii’st  time.  Just  as  it  is 
said,  that  people  who  have  ouce  seen  a ghost  are  never  after- 
wards seen  to  smile,  so  in  the  opposite  sense  it  may  be  said 
of  him,  that  he  never  could  become  perfectly  miserable  so 
long  as  he  remembered  Naples.  According  to  my  fashion, 
I am  quite  still  and  calm  ; and  when  au}’  thing  happens  too 
absurd,  only  open  my  eyes  widely,  — very  widely". 


Naples,  Feb.  28,  1787. 

To-day  we  visited  Philip  Hackert,  the  famous  landscape- 
painter,  who  enjoys  the  special  confidence  and  peculiar 
favor  of  the  king  and  (pieen.  A wing  of  the  palace  Franca 
Villa  has  been  assigned  to  him.  Having  furnished  it  with 
true  artistic  taste,  he  feels  great  satisfaction  in  inhabiting  it. 
He  is  a very  precise  and  prudent  man,  who,  with  untiring 
industry,  manages,  nevertheless,  to  enjoy  life. 

After  that  we  took  a sail,  and  saw  all  kinds  of  fish  and 
wonderful  shapes  drawn  out  of  the  waves.  The  day  was 
glorious,  the  tramontane  (north  winds)  tolerable. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


235 


Naples,  Marcli  1,  1787. 

Even  in  Rome  my  self-willed,  hermit-like  lunnor  was  forced 
to  assume  a more  social  aspect  than  I altogether  liked.  No 
i doubt  it  appears  a strange  mode  of  proceeding,  to  go  into  the 
world  in  order  to  be  alone  : according!}^,  I could  not  resist 
Prince  von  Waldeck,  who  most  kindly  invited  me,  and  by 
his  rank  and  iuHneuce  has  procured  me  the  enjoyment  of 
many  privileges.  We  had  scarcely  reached  Naples,  where 
he  has  been  residing  a long  while,  when  lie  sent  us  an  invita- 
tion to  pay  a visit  with  him  to  Pnzznoli  and  the  neighbor- 
hood. I was  thinking  already  of  Vesuvius  for  to-day ; but 
Tischbein  has  forced  me  to  take  this  journey,  which,  agreea- 
ble enough  of  itself,  promises  from  the  fine  weather,  and  the 
society  of  a perfect  gentleman  and  well-educated  prince, 
very  much  both  of  pleasure  and  profit.  We  had  also  seen 
in  Rome  a beautiful  lady,  who,  with  her  husband,  is  insepara- 
ble from  the  prince.  .She  also  is  to  be  of  the  party,  and  we 
hope  for  a most  delightful  day. 

Moreover,  I was  intimately  known  to  this  noble  society, 
having  met  them  previously.  The  prince,  upon  our  first 
acquaintance,  had  asked  me  what  I was  then  busy  with  ; and 
the  plan  of  my  “ Iphigenia  ” was  so  fresh  in  my  recollection, 
that  I was  able  one  evening  to  relate  it  to  them  circum- 
stantiallju  They  entered  into  it : still,  I fancied  I could 
observe  that  something  livelier  and  wilder  was  expected  of 
me. 

Evening. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  give  an  account  of  this  day.  How 
often  has  the  cursory  reading  of  a book  which  irresistibly 
carries  one  with  it,  exercised  the  greatest  influence  on  a 
man’s  whole  life,  and  produced  at  once  a decisive  effect, 
which  neither  a second  perusal  nor  earnest  reflection  can 
either  strengthen  or  modify.  This  I experienced  in  the  ease 
of  the  “ Sakuntala  ; ” And  do  not  great  men  affect  us  some- 
what in  the  same  way?  A sail  to  Puzzuoli,  little  trips  by 
land,  cheerful  walks  through  the  most  wonderful  regions  in 
the  world  ! Beneath  the  purest  sky,  the  most  treacherous 
soil ; ruins  of  inconceivable  opulence,  oppressive  and  sad- 
dening ; boiling  waters,  clefts  exhaling  sulphur,  rocks  of 
slag  defying  vegetable  life,  bare,  forbidding  tracts  ; and  then, 
at  last,  on  all  sides  the  most  luxuriant  vegetation,  seizing 
every  spot  and  cranny  possible,  running  over  every  lifeless 
object,  edging  the  lakes  and  brooks,  and  nourishing  a glori- 
ous wood  of  oak  on  the  brink  of  an  ancient  crater ! 


236 


LETTERS  FRO:\I  ITALY. 


And  thus  one  is  driven  to  find  fro  between  nature  and  the 
history  of  nations  : one  wishes  to  meditate,  and  soon  feels 
himself  quite  unfit  for  it.  In  the  mean  time,  however,  the 
living  live  on  merrily,  with  a joyousness  which  we,  too,  would 
share.  Educated  persons,  belonging  to  the  world  and  the 
world’s  w'ays,  but  warned  b}^  serious  events,  become,  never- 
theless, disposed  for  reflection.  A boundless  view  of  land, 
sea.  and  skj',  — and  then  called  away  to  the  side  of  a young 
and  amiable  lady,  accustomed  and  delighted  to  receive 
homage. 

Amidst  all  this  giddy  excitement,  however,  I failed  not 
to  make  many  notes.  The  future  reduction  of  these  will  be 
greatly  facilitated  by  the  map  we  consulted  on  the  spot,  and 
by  a hasty  sketch  of  Tischbein’s.  To-day  it  is  not  possible 
for  me  to  make  the  least  addition  to  these. 

Maech  2. 

Thursdaj'  I ascended  Vesuvius  ; although  the  weather  was 
unsettled,  and  the  summit  of  the  mountain  surrounded  by 
clouds.  I took  a carriage  as  far  as  Resina,  and  then,  on  tlie 
back  of  a mule,  began  the  ascent,  having  viue^'ards  on  both 
sides.  Next,  on  foot,  I crossed  the  lava  of  the  year  ’71,  on 
the  surface  of  which  a fine  but  compact  moss  was  alread}^ 
growing  ; then  upwards  on  the  side  of  the  lava.  The  hut  of 
the  hermit  on  the  height  was  on  my  left  hand.  After  this 
we  climbed  the  Ash-hill,  Avhich  is  wearisome  walking : two- 
thirds  of  the  summit  were  enveloped  in  clouds.  At  last  we 
reached  the  ancient  crater,  now  filled  up,  where  we  found 
recent  lava,  only  two  months  and  fourteen  days  old,  and 
also  a slight  streak  of  only  five  days,  which  was,  however, 
already  cold.  Passing  over  these,  we  next  ascended  a 
height  wliieh  had  been  thrown  up  by  volcanic  action : it  was 
smoking  from  all  its  points.  As  the  smoke  rolled  nway  from 
us,  I essayed  to  approach  the  crater.  Scarcely,  however,  had 
we  taken  fifty  steps  in  the  steam,  when  it  became  so  dense 
that  I could  scarcely  see  my  shoes.  It  was  to  no  purpose 
that  we  held  snuff  continually  before  our  nostrils.  My  guide 
had  disappeared,  and  the  footing  on  the  lava  lately  thrown 
up  was  very  unsteady.  I therefore  thought  it  riglit  to  turn 
round,  and  reserve  the  sight  for  a finer  day  and  for  loss  of 
smoke.  However,  I now  know  how  difficult  it  is  to  breathe 
in  such  an  atmosphere. 

Otherwise  the  mountain  was  quite  still.  There  was  no 
flame,  no  roaring,  no  stones  thrown  up,  — all  which  it  usually 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


237 


does  at  most  times.  I reconnoitred  it  well,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  regnlarl}’  storming  it  as  soon  as  the  weather  shall 
improve.  AYhat  specimens  of  lava  I found  were  mostly  of 
well-known  kinds.  I noticed,  however,  a phenomenon 
which  appeared  to  me  very  strange : I intend  to  examine  it 
again  still  more  closely,  and  also  to  consult  connoisseurs  and 
collectors  about  it.  It  is  a stalactite  incrustation  of  a part 
of  the  volcanic  funnel,  which  has  been  thrown  down,  and 
now  rears  itself  in  the  centre  of  the  old  choked-np  crater. 
This  mass  of  solid  grayish  stalactite  appears  to  have  been 
formed  by  the  sublimation  of  the  very  finest  volcanic  evap- 
oration, without  the  co-operation  of  either  moisture  or 
fusion.  It  will  furnish  occasion  for  further  thinking. 

To-day',  the  3d  of  March,  the  sky  is  covered  with  clouds, 
and  a sirocco  is  blowing.  For  post-day,  good  weather. 

A very  strange  medley  of  men,  beautiful  houses,  and 
most  singular  fishes,  are  here  to  be  seen  in  abundance. 

Of  the  situation  of  the  city,  and  of  its  glories,  which  have 
been  so  often  described  and  commended,  not  a word  from 
me.  “ Vedi  Napoli  e poi  muori^'’  is  the  cry  here.  “ See 
Naples,  and  die.” 


Naples,  March  2, 1787. 

That  no  Neapolitan  will  allow  the  merits  of  his  city  to  be 
questioned,  that  their  poets  should  sing  in  extravagant 
hyperbole  of  the  blessings  of  its  site,  are  not  matters  to 
quarrel  about,  even  though  a pair  of  Vesuviuses  stood  in  its 
neighborhood.  Here  one  almost  casts  aside  all  remem- 
brances, even  of  Rome.  As  compared  with  this  free,  open 
situation,  the  capital  of  the  world,  in  the  basin  of  the  Tiber, 
looks  like  a eloister  built  on  a bad  site. 

The  sea,  with  its  vessels  and  their  destinations,  presents 
wholly  new  matters  for  reflection.  The  frigate  for  Palermo 
started  yesterday,  with  a strong,  direct  north  wind.  This 
time  it  certainly  will  not  be  more  than  six  and  thirty  hours 
on  the  passage.  With  what  longing  I watched  the  full  sails 
as  the  vessel  passed  between  Capri  and  Cape  Minerva,  until 
at  last  it  disappeared.  Who  eould  see  one’s  beloved  thus 
sailing  away  and  survive  ? The  sirocco  (south  wind)  is  now 
blowing : if  the  wind  becomes  sti'onger,  the  breakers  over 
the  Mole  will  be  glorious. 

To-day  being  Friday,  the  grand  promenade  of  the  nobility 
came  on,  when  every  one  displays  his  equipages,  and  espe- 


LETTERS  FRO]\I  ITALY. 


cially  liis  stud.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  see  finer  horses 
anywhere  than  in  Naples.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I 
have  felt  an  interest  in  these  animals. 

Naples,  March  3,  1787. 

Here  you  have  a few  leaves,  as  reporters  of  the  entertain- 
ment I have  met  with  in  this  place  ; also  a corner  of  the 
cover  of  your  letter,  stained  with  smoke,  in  testimony  of 
its  having  been  with  me  on  Vesuvius.  You  must  not,  how- 
ever, fancy,  either  in  your  waking  thoughts  or  in  your 
dreams,  that  I am  surrounded  b}’  perils.  Be  assured  that 
wherever  I venture,  there  is  no  more  danger  than  on  the 
road  to  Belvedere.  '“The  earth  is  the  Lord’s  everywhere,” 
may  well  be  said  in  reference  to  such  objects.  1 never  seek 
adventure  out  of  a mere  rage  for  singularity  ; but  because  I 
am  mostly  cool,  and  can  catch  at  a glance  the  peculiarities  of 
any  object,  I may  well  do  and  venture  more  than  many 
others.  The  passage  to  Sicily  is  auj'  thing  but  dangerous. 
A few  days  ago  the  frigate  sailed  for  Palermo  with  a favor- 
able breeze  from  the  north,  and  leaving  Capri  on  the  right, 
has,  no  doubt,  aceomplished  the  voyage  in  six  aud  thirty 
hours.  In  all  such  expeditions,  one  finds  the  danger  to  be 
far  less  in  reality  than,  at  a distance,  one  is  apt  to  imagine. 

Of  earthquakes,  there  is  not  at  present  a vestige  in  Lower 
Italy.  In  the  upper  provinces,  Rimini  and  its  neighborhood 
have  lately  suffered.  Tims  the  earth  has  strange  humors ; 
aud  people  talk  of  earthquakes  here  just  as  we  do  of  wind 
aud  weather,  and  as  in  Thuringia  they  talk  of  conflagrations. 

I am  delighted  to  find  that  you  are  now  familiar  with  the 
two  editions  of  my  “Iphigenia,”  but  still  more  pleased 
should  I be  had  3'ou  been  more  sensible  of  the  difference 
between  them.  I know  what  I have  done  for  it,  and  may 
well  speak  thereof ; since  I feel  that  I could  make  still 
further  improvements.  If  it  be  a bliss  to  enjoy  the  good,  it 
is  still  greater  happiness  to  discern  the  better ; for  in  art  the 
best  only  is  good  enough. 


Naples,  March  5,  1787. 

We  spent  the  second  Sunday  of  Lent  in  visiting  church 
after  church.  As  in  Rome  all  is  highly  solemn,  so  here 
every  hour  is  nieriy  and  cheerful.  The  Neapolitan  school 
of  painting,  too,  can  011I3"  be  understood  in  Naples.  One  is 
astonished  to  see  the  whole  front  of  a church  painted,  from 
top  to  bottom.  Over  the  door  of  one,  Chidst  is  driving  out 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


239 


of  the  temple  the  buyers  and  sellers,  who,  terribly  fright- 
ened, are  nimbly  huddling  up  their  wares,  and  hurrying 
down  the  steps  on  both  sides.  In  another  church  there  is  a 
room  over  the  entrance,  which  is  richly  ornamented  with 
frescos  representing  the  deprivation  of  Heliodorus.^  Luca 
Giordano  must  indeed  have  painted  rapidly,  to  fill  such  large 
areas  in  a lifetime.  The  pulpit,  too,  is  here  not  always  a 
mere  cathedra,  as  it  is  in  other  places,  — a place  wdiere  .one 
only  may  teach  at  a time,  — but  a gallery.  Along  one  of  these 
1 once  saw  a Capuchin  walking  -up  and  down,  and,  now  from 
one  end,  now  from  another,  reproaching  the  people  with 
their  sins.  What  a deal  I could  say  about  it ! 

But  neither  to  be  told  nor  to  be  described  is  the  glory  of  a 
night  of  the  full  moon  such  as  we  have  enjoyed  here. 
Wandering  through  the  streets  and  squares,  and  on  the  quay, 
with  its  long  promenade,  and  then  backward  and  forward  on 
the  beach,  one  felt  really  possessed  with  the  feeling  of  the 
infinity  of  space.  So  to  dream  is  really  worth  all  trouble. 

Naples,  March  5,  1787. 

I made  to-day  the  acquaintance  of  an  excellent  individual, 
and  I must  briefly  give  you  a general  description  of  him.  It 
is  the  Chevalier  PTlangieri,  famous  for  his  work  on  legisla- 
tion. He  belongs  to  those  noble  young  men  who  wish  to 
promote  the  hapiiiness  and  the  moderate  liberty  of  mankind. 
In  his  bearing  you  recognize  at  once  the  soldier,  the  cheva- 
lier, and  the  man  of  the  world ; but  this  appearance  is 
softened  by  an  expression  of  tender  moral  sensibility,  which 
is  diffused  over  his  whole  countenance,  and  shines  forth  most 
agreeabl}'  in  his  character  and  conversation.  He  is,  more- 
over, heartily  attached  to  his  sovereign  and  country,  even 
though  he  cannot  approve  of  all  that  goes  on.  He  is  also 
oppressed  with  a fear  of  Joseph  II.  The  idea  of  a despot, 
even  though  it  only  floats  as  a phantom  in  the  air,  excites 
the  apprehensions  of  every  noble-minded  man.  He  spoke 
to  me  without  reserve,  of  what  Naples  had  to  fear  from 
him  ; but  in  particular  he  was  delighted  to  speak  of  Montes- 
quieu, Beecaria,  and  of  some  of  Ins  own  writings,  — all  in  the 
same  spirit  of  the  best  intention,  and  of  a heart  full  of 
youthful  enthusiasm  of  doing  good.  And  yet  he  may  one 
day  be  classed  with  the  Thirty.  He  has  also  made  me 

^ TIeliocIorus,  bishop  of  Tricca,  in  Thessaly,  in  the  fourth  century,  author  of  the 
“ CEthiopics,  or,  the  Amours  of  Theagenes  and  Chariclea,”  was,  it  is  said,  deprived 
of  his  bishopric  for  writing  this  work.  — A.  W.  M. 


240 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


acquainted  with  an  old  writer,  from  whose  ineshaustilde 
depths  these  new  Italian  friends  of  legislation  derive  intense 
encouragement  and  edilication.  He  is  called  Giambattista 
Vico,  and  is  preferred  even  to  Montesquieu.  After  a hasty 
perusal  of  his  book,  which  was  lent  to  me  as  a sacred 
deposit,  J laid  it  down,  saying  to  myself.  Here  are  sublime 
anticipations  of  good  and  right,  which  once  must,  or  ought 
to  be,  realized,  drawn  apparently  from  a senous  contempla- 
tion both  of  the  past  and  of  the  present.  It  is  well  when  a 
nation  possesses  such  a forefather : the  Germans  will  one 
day  receive  a similar. codex  from  Hamann. 

Naples,  ^^a^ch  fi,  1787. 

Most  reluctantly,  yet  for  the  sake'  of  good-fellowship, 
Tischbein  accompanied  me  to  Vesuvius.  To  him  — the 
artist  of  form,  who  concerns  himself  with  none  but  the 
most  beautiful  of  human  and  animal  shapes,  and  one  also 
whose  taste  and  judgment  lead  to  humanize  even  the  form- 
less rock  and  landscape  — such  a frightful  and  shapeless 
conglomeration  of  matter,  which,  moreover,  is  continually 
pre3'ing  on  itself,  and  [>roclaiming  war  against  every  idea  of 
the  beautiful,  must  have  appeared  utterlj' abominable. 

We  started  in  two  caleches,  as  we  did  not  trust  ourselves 
to  drive  through  the  crowd  and  whirl  of  the  city.  The 
drivers  kept  up  an  incessant  shouting  at  the  top  of  their 
voice  whenever  donkeys,  with  their  loads  of  wood  or  rubbish, 
or  rolling  caliches,  met  us,  or  else  warning  the  porters  with 
their  burdens,  or  other  pedestrians,  whether  children  or  old 
people,  to  get  out  of  the  wa^n  All  the  while,  however, 
the}'  drove  at  a sharp  trot,  without  the  least  stop  or  check. 

As  3’ou  get  into  the  remoter  suburbs  and  gardens,  the  road 
soon  begins  to  show  signs  of  a Plutonic  action.  For  as  we 
had  not  had  rain  for  a long  time,  the  naturally  ever-greeu 
leaves  were  covered  with  a thick  gray  and  ash}'  dust ; so 
that  the  glorious  blue  sk}-,  and  the  scorching  sun  which 
shone  down  upon  us,  were  the  oul}'  signs  that  we  were  still 
among  the  living. 

At  the  foot  of  the  steep  ascent,  we  rvere  received  bv  two 
guides,  one  old,  the  other  }'oung,  but  both  active  fellows. 
The  first  pulled  me  up  the  path,  the  other.  Tischbeiu.  — ^ 
pulled  I sa}' : for  these  guides  are  girded  round  the  waist  with 
a leathern  belt,  which  the  traveller  takes  hold  of  : and  when 
drawn  up  by  his  guide,  he  makes  his  wa}’  the  more  easily 
with  foot  and  staff.  In  this  manner  wc  reached  the  flat  from 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


241 


which  the  cone  rises.  Towards  the  north  lay  the  ruins  of  the 
Somma. 

A glance  westwards  over  the  country  beneath  us,  removed, 
as  well  as  a bath  could,  all  feeling  of  exhaustion  and  fatigue  ; 
and  we  now  went  round  the  ever-smoking  cone,  as  it  threw 
out  its  stones  and  ashes.  Wherever  the  space  allowed  of 
onr  viewing  it  at  a sufficient  distance,  it  appeared  a grand 
and  elevating  spectacle.  In  the  first  place,  a violent 
thundering  resounded  from  its  deepest  abyss  ; then  stones  of 
larger  and  smaller  sizes  were  showered  into  the  air  by  thou- 
sands, and  enveloped  by  clouds  of  ashes.  The  greatest  part 
fell  again  into  the  gorge  : the  rest  of  the  fragments,  receiving 
a lateral  inclination,  and  falling  on  the  outside  of  the  crater, 
made  a marvellous  rumbling  noise.  First  of  all,  the  larger 
masses  plumped  against  the  side,  and  rebounded  with  a dull, 
heavy  sound  ; then  the  smaller  came  rattling  down  ; and  last 
of  all,  a shower  of  ashes  was  trickling  down.  All  this  took 
place  at  regular  intervals,  which,  by  slowly  counting,  we  wei’e 
able  to  measure  pretty  accurately. 

Between  the  Somma,  however,  and  the  cone,  the  space  is 
narrow  enough : moreover,  several  stones  fell  around  us, 
and  made  the  circuit  any  thing  but  agreeable.  Tischbein  now 
felt  more  disgusted  than  ever  with  Vesuvius  ; as  the  monster, 
not  content  with  being  hateful,  showed  iucUnatiou  to  become 
mischievous  also. 

As,  however,  the  presence  of  danger  generally  exercises 
on  man  a kind  of  attraction,  and  calls  forth  a spirit  of  oppo- 
sition in  the  human  breast  to  defy  it,  I bethought  myself, 
that,  in  the  interval  of  the  eruptions,  it  would  be  possible  to 
climb  up  the  cone  to  the  crater,  and  to  get  back  before  it 
broke  out  again.  I held  a council  on  this  point  with  our 
guides,  under  one  of  the  overhanging  rocks  of  the  Somma, 
where,  encamped  in  safety,  we  refreshed  ourselves  with  the 
provisions  we  had  brought  with  us.  The  jmuuger  guide  was 
willing  to  run  the  risk  with  me.  We  stuffed  our  hats  full  of 
linen  and  silk  handkerchiefs,  and,  staff  in  hand,  prepared  to 
start,  I holding  on  to  his  girdle. 

The  little  stones  were  yet  rattling  round  us,  and  the  ashes 
still  drizzling,  as  the  stalwart  youth  hurried  forth  with  me 
across  the  hot,  glowing  rubble.  We  soon  stood  on  the  brink 
of  the  vast  chasm,  the  smoke  of  which,  although  a gentle  air 
was  bearing  it  away  from  us,  unfortunately  veiled  the  inte- 
rior of  the  crater,  which  smoked  all  round  from  a thousand 
crannies.  At  intervals,  however,  we  caught  sight,  through 


242 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


the  smoke,  of  the  cracked  walls  of  the  rock.  The  view  wag 
neither  instructive  nor  delightful : but  for  the  veiy  reason 
that  one  saw  nothing,  one  lingered  in  the  hope  of  catching  a 
glimpse  of  something  more ; and  so  we  forgot  our  slow 
counting.  We  were  standing  on  a narrow  ridge  of  the  vast 
abyss  : of  a sudden  the  thunder  pealed  aloud  ; we  ducked 
our  heads  involuntarily,  as  if  that  would  have  rescued  us 
from  the  precipitated  masses.  The  smaller  stones  soon  rat- 
tled ; and,  without  considering  that  we  had  again  an  interval 
of  cessation  before  us,  and  only  too  much  rejoiced  to  have 
outstood  the  danger,  we  rushed  down,  and  reached  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  together  with  the  drizzling  ashes,  which  pretty 
thickly  covered  our  heads  and  shoulders. 

Tischbein  was  heartily  glad  to  see  me  again.  After  a 
little  scolding  and  a little  refreshment,  I was  able  to  give  my 
especial  attention  to  the  old  and  new  lava.  And  here  the 
cider  of  the  guides  was  able  to  instruct  me  accurately  in  the 
signs  by  which  the  ages  of  the  several  strata  were  indicated. 
The  older  were  already  covered  with  ashes,  and  rendered 
quite  smooth ; the  newer,  especially  those  which  had  cooled 
slowly,  presented  a singular  appearance.  As,  sliding  along, 
they  carried  away  with  them  the  solid  objects  Avhich  lay  on 
the  surface,  it  necessarily  happened,  that,  from  time  to  time, 
several  would  come  into  contact  with  each  other : and  these 
again  being  swept  still  farther  by  the  molten  stream,  and 
pushed  one  over  the  other,  would  eventually  form  a solid 
mass,  with  wonderful  jags  and  corners,  still  more  strange 
even  than  the  somewhat  similarly  formed  piles  of  the  ice- 
bergs. Among  this  fused  and  waste  matter  I found  many 
great  rocks,  which,  being  struck  with  a hammer,  present  on 
the  liroken  face  a perfect  resemblance  to  the  primeval  rock 
formation.  The  guides  maintained  that  these  were  old  lava 
from  tlie  lowest  depths  of  the  mountain,  which  are  very  often 
thrown  up  by  the  volcano. 

Upon  our  return  to  Naples,  we  noticed  some  small  houses 
of  only  one  story,  and  of  a remarkable  appearance  and  sin- 
gular build,  without  windows,  and  receiving  all  their  light 
from  tlie  doors,  wliich  opened  on  the  road.  The  inhabitants 
sit  before  them  at  the  door  from  the  morning  to  the  night, 
when  they  at  last  retire  to'their  holes. 

Tlie  city,  which  in  the  evening  is  all  of  a tumult,  though 
in  a somewhat  dift'creiit  manner,  extorted  from  me  the  wish 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


243 


that  I might  be  able  to  stay  here  for  some  time,  in  order  to 
sketch,  to  the  best  of  m}"  powers,  the  moving  scene.  It  will 
not,  however,  be  possible. 

Naples,  Wednesday,  March’ 7,  1787. 

This  week  Tischbein  has  shown  to  me,  and  without  reserve 
commented  upon,  the  greater  part  of  the  artistic  treasures  of 
Naples.  An  excellent  judge  and  drawer  of  animals,  he  had 
long  before  called  my  attention  to  a horse’s  head  in  brass  in 
the  Palace  Columbrano.  We  went  there  to-day.  This  relic 
of  art  is  placed  in  the  court,  right  opposite  the  gateway,  in  a 
niche  over  a well,  and  really  excites  one’s  astonishment. 
What  must  have  been  the  effect  of  the  whole  head  and  body 
together?  The  perfect  horse  must  have  been  far  larger  than 
those  at  St.  Mark’s  : moreover,  the  head  alone,  when  closely 
viewed,  enables  jmu  distinctly  to  recognize  and  admire  the 
character  and  spirit  of  the  animal.  The  splendid  frontal 
bones,  the  snorting  nostrils,  the  pricked  ears,  the  stiff  mane, 
— a strong,  excited,  and  spirited  creature  ! 

We  turned  round  to  notice  a female  statue  which  stands  in 
a niche  over  the  gateway.  It  has  been  already  described  by 
Winckelmann  as  an  imitation  of  a dancing-girl,  with  the 
remark,  that  such  artistes  represent  to  us  in  living  movement, 
and  under  the  greatest  variety,  that  beauty  of  form  which 
the  masters  of  statuary  exhibit  in  the  (as  it  were)  petrified 
nymphs  and  goddesses.  It  is  very  light  and  beautiful.  The 
head,  which  had  been  broken  off,  has  been  skilfully  set  on 
again ; otherwise  it  is  nowise  injured,  and  most  assuredly 
deserves  a better  place. 

Naples,  March  9,  1787. 

To-4ay  I received  your  dear  letter  of  the  16th  of  February  : 
only,  keep  on  writing.  I have  made  arrangements  for  the 
forwarding  of  my  letters,  and  I shall  continue  to  do  so  if  I 
move  farther.  Quite  strange  does  it  seem  to  me  to  read  that 
my  friends  do  not  often  see  each  other ; and  yet  perhaps 
nothing  IS  more  common  than  for  m.en  not  to  meet  who  are 
living  close  together. 

The  weather  here  has  become  dull ; a change  is  at  hand. 
Spring  is  commencing,  and  we  shall  soon  have  some  rainy 
days.  The  summit  of  Vesuvius  has  not  been  clear  since  I 
paid  it  a visit.  These  few  last  nights  flames  have  been  seen 
to  issue  from  it ; to-day  it  is  keeping  quiet,  and  therefore 
^ more  violent  eruptions  are  expected. 


244 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


The  storms  of  these  last  few  clays  have  shown  to  us  a 
glorious  sea : it  is  at  such  times  that  the  waves  may  he 
studied  in  tlieir  worthiest  style  and  shape.  Nature,  indeed, 
is  tlie  only  book  wliich  presents  important  matter  on  all  its 
pages.  On  the  other  hand,  the  theatres  have  ceased  to  fur- 
nish any  amusement.  During  Lent  nothing  but  operas, 
which  differ  in  no  respect  from  more  profane  ones  but  b}'  the 
absence  of  ballets  between  the  acts.  In  all  other  respects 
they  are  as  gay  as  possible.  In  the  theatre  of  S.  Carlo  they 
are  representing  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem  by  Nebuchad- 
nezzar. To  me  it  is  only  a great  raree-show : my  taste  is 
quite  spoilt  for  such  things. 

To-day  we  were  with  the  Prince  von  IValdeck  at  Capo  di 
Monte,  where  there  is  a great  collection  of  paintings,  coins, 
etc.  It  is  not  well  arranged,  but  the  things  themselves  are 
above  praise.  We  can  now  correct  and  confirm  many 
traditional  ideas.  Those  coins,  gems,  and  vases,  whieh, 
like  the  stunted  citron-trees,  come  to  us  in  the  North  one 
l)y  one,  have  quite  a different  look  here,  in  the  mass, 
and,  so  to  speak,  in  their  own  home  and  native  soil.  For 
where  works  of  art  are  rare,  their  veiy  rarity  gives  them  a 
value  : here  we  learn  to  treasure  none  but  the  intrinsically 
valuable. 

A very  high  price  is  at  present  given  for  Fltruscau  vases, 
and  certainly  beautiful  and  excellent  pieces  are  to  be  found 
among  them.  Not  a traveller  but  wishes  to  possess  some 
specimen  or  other  of  them.  One  does  not  seem  to  value 
monej’  here  at  the  same  rate  as  at  home ; I fear  that  I mj’- 
self  shall  yet  be  tempted. 


( 


T 


Naples,  Friday,  March  9, 17S7. 

This  is  the  pleasant  part  of  travelling,  that  even  ordiu.ary 
matters,  by  their  novelty  and  unexpectedness,  often  acquire 
the  appearance  of  an  adventure.  As  I came  back  from  Capo 
di  Monte,  I paid  .^n  evening  visit  to  Filangieri,  and  saw  sit- 
ting on  the  sofa,  by  the  side  of  the  mistress  of  the  house,  a 
lady  whose  external  appearance  seemed  to  agree  but  little 
with  the  familiarity  and  easy  manner  she  indulged  in.  In 
a light,  striped,  silk  gown  of  very  ordinary  texture,  and  a 
most  singular  cap  by  way  of  head-dress,  but  being  of  a 
pretty  figure,  she  looked  like  some  poor  dressmaker,  who. 
taken  up  with  the  care  of  adorning  the  persons  of  othei*s.  had 
little  time  to  bestow  on  her  own  external  appearance.  Such 
people  are  so  accustomed  to  exocet  their  labors  to  be  remu- 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


245 


i nei’ated,  that  they  seem  to  liave  no  idea  of  working  gratis  for 
i themselves.  She  did  not  allow  her  gossip  to  be  at  all 
I checked  by  my  arrival,  bnt  went  on  talking  of  a number  of 
I ridiculous  adventures  which  had  happened  to  her  that  day, 

I or  wliich  had  been  occasioned  by  her  own  brusquerie  and 
j impetuosity. 

The  lady  of  the  house  wished  to  help  me  to  get  in  a word 
or  two,  and  spoke  of  the  beautiful  site  of  Capo  di  Monte, 
and  of  the  treasures  there.  Upon  this  the  livel}"  lady  sprang 
up  with  a good  high  jump  from  the  sofa,  and  as  she  stood  on 
1 her  feet  seemed  still  prettier  than  before.  She  took  leave, 
and  running  to  the  door,  said  as  she  passed  me,  “The  Filan- 
; gieri  are  coming  one  of  these  day^s  to  dine  with  me.  I hope 
to  see  you  also.”  She  was  gone  before  I could  say  yes.  I 

i now  learned  that  she  was  the  Princess , a near  relative 

to  the  master  of  the  house. ^ The  Filangieri  were  not  rich, 
and  lived  in  a becoming  but  moderate  style ; and  such  I 
presumed  was  the  ease  with  my  little  princess,  especially  as 
such  titles  are  any  thing  but  rare  in  Naples.  I set  down  the 
name,  and  the  day  and  hour,  and  left  them,  without  any 
doubt  but  that  I should  be  found  at  the  right  place  in  due 
time. 


Naples,  Sunday,  March  11,  1787. 

As  my  stay  in  Naples  cannot  be  long,  I take  my  most  re- 
mote points  first  of  all : the  near  throw  themselves,  as  it 
were,  in  one’s  way.  I have  been  with  Tischbeiii  to  Pompeii ; 
and  on  our  road  all  those  glorious  prospects  which  were  al- 
ready well  known  to  us  from  many  a landscape-drawing,  lay 
right  and  left,  dazzling  us  by  their  number  and  unbroken  suc- 
cession. 

Pompeii  amazes  one  by  its  narrowness  and  littleness,  — 
confined  streets,  but  perfectly  straight,  and  furnished  on  both 
sides  with  a foot  pavement ; little  houses  without  windows, 
the  rooms  being  lit  only  by  the  doors,  which  opened  on  the 
atrium  and  the  galleries.  Even  the  public  edifices,  the  tomb 
at  the  gate,  a temple,  and  also  a villa  in  its  neighborhood, 
are  like  models  and  doll’s  houses,  rather  than  real  buildings. 
The  rooms  — corridors,  galleries,  and  all  — are  painted  with 
bright  and  cheerful  colors,  the  wall-surfaces  uniform  ; in  the 
middle  some  elaborate  painting  (most  of  these  have  been 
removed)  ; on  the  borders  and  at  the  corners,  light,  tasteful 
arabesques,  terminating  in  the  pretty  figures  of,  nymphs  or 

^ Filangieri’s  sister. 


246 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


children  ; wliile  in  others,  from  out  of  garlands  of  flowers, 
beasts,  wild  and  tame,  are  issuing.  Thus  does  the  city, 
which  first  of  all  the  hot  shower  of  stones  and  ashes  over- 
whelmed, and  afterwards  the  excavators  plundered,  still  bear 
witness,  even  in  its  present  utterly  desolate  state,  to  a taste 
for  painting  and  the  arts  common  to  the  whole  people,  of 
which  the  most  enthusiastic  dilettante  of  the  present  day  has 
no  idea ; nor  has  he  any  feeling  nor  desire  for  it. 

When  one  'considers  the  distance  of  this  town  from  Vesu- 
vius, it  is  clear  that  the  volcanic  matter  which  overwhelmed 
it  could  not  have  been  carried  hither  either  by  any  sudden 
impetus  of  the  mountain  or  by  the  wind.  We  must  rather 
suppose  that  these  stones  and  ashes  had  been  floating  for  a 
time  in  the  air,  like  clouds,  until  at  last  they  fell  upon  the 
doomed  city. 

In  order  to  form  a clear  and  precise  idea  of  this  event,  one 
has  only  to  think  of  a mountain  village  buried  in  snow.  The 
spaces  between  the  houses,  and  indeed  the  crushed  houses 
themselves,  were  filled  up  ; however,  it  is  not  improbable 
that  some  of  the  mason-woik  may  at  different  points  have 
peeped  above  the  surface,  and  in  this  way  have  excited  the 
notice  of  those  by  whom  the  hill  was  broken  up  for  vineyards 
and  gardens.  And,  no  doubt,  man}’  an  owner,  on  digging 
up  his  own  portion,  must  have  made  valuable  gleanings. 
Several  rooms  were  found  quite  empty ; and  in  the  corner  of 
one  a heap  of  ashes  was  observed,  under  which  a quantity  of 
household  articles  and  works  of  art  was  concealed. 

The  strange,  and  in  some  degree  unpleasant,  impression 
which  this  mummied  city  leaves  on  the  mind,  we  got  rid  of. 
as,  sitting  in  the  arbor  of  a little  inn  close  to  the  sea  (where 
we  partook  of  a frugal  meal),  we  revelled  in  the  blue  sky. 
the  glaring  ripple  of  the  sea,  and  the  bright  sunshine  ; and 
cherished  a hope  that  when  the  vine-leaf  should  again  cover 
the  hill  we  might  all  be  able  to  pay  it  a second  visit,  and 
once  more  enjoy  ourselves  togotlier  on  the  same  spot. 

As  we  approached  the  city,  we  again  came  upon  the  little 
cottages,  which  now  appeared  to  us  perfectly  to  resemble 
those  in  Pompeii.  We  obtained  permission  to  enter  one, 
and  found  it  extremely  clean.  — neatly  platted,  rush-bottomed 
chairs,  a buffet,  covered  all  over  with  gilding,  or  painted  with 
variegated  flowers,  and  highly  varnished.  Thus,  after  so 
many  centuries,  and  such  numberless  changes,  this  couutiy 
instils  into  its  inhabitants  the  same  customs  and  habits  of 
life,  the  same  inclinations  and  tastes. 


LETTEKS  FROM  ITALY. 


247 


Naples, 

’*•  Monday,  March  12,  1787. 

To-day,  according  to  my  custom,  I have  gone  slovriy 
through  the  cit}^  noting  for  fntnre  description  several  points, 
hut  about  which,  I am  sorry  to  say,  I cannot  communicate 
any  thing  to-day.  All  tends  to  this  one  conclusion  : that  a 
highly  favored  land,  which  furnishes  in  abundance  the  chief 
necessaries  of  existence,  produces  men  also  of  a happy  dis- 
position, wdio,  without  trouble  or  anxiety,  trust  to  to-morrow 
to  bring  them  what  to-day  has  been  wanting,  and  consequently 
live  on  in  a light-hearted,  careless  sort  of  life.  Momentary 
gratification,  moderate  enjoyments,  a passing  sorrow,  and  a 
cheerful  resignation. 

The  morning  has  been  cold  and  damp,  with  a little  rain. 
In  my  walk  I came  upon  a spot  where  the  great  slabs  of  the 
pavement  appeared  swept  quite  clean.  To  my  great  surprise 
I saw,  on  this  smooth  and  even  spot,  a number  of  ragged 
boys,  squatting  in  a circle,  and  spreading  out  their  hands 
over  the  ground  as  if  to  warm  them.  At  first  I took  it  to 
be  some  game  that  they  were  playing.  When,  however,  I 
noticed  the  perfect  seriousness  and  composure  of  their  coun- 
tenanees,  with  an  expression  on  it  of  a gratified  want,  I 
therefore  put  my  brains  to  the  utmost  stretch,  but  they  re- 
fused to  enlighten  me  as  I desired.  I was,  therefore,  obliged 
to  ask  what  it  could  be  that  had  induced  these  little  imps  to 
take  up  this  strange  position,  and  had  collected  them  in  so 
regular  a circle. 

Upon  this  I was  informed  that  a neighboring  smith  had 
been  heating  the  tire  of  a wheel,  and  that  this  is  done  m the 
following  manner.  The  iron  tire  is  laid  on  the  pavement, 
and  around  it  is  as  much  of  oak  chips  as  is  considered  suffi- 
cient to  soften  the  iron  to  the  required  degree  : the  lighted 
wood  burns  away,  the  tire  is  riveted  to  the  wheel,  and  the 
ashes  carefully  swept  up.  The  little  vagabonds  take  advan- 
tage of  the  heat  communicated  to  the  pavement,  and  do  not 
leave  the  spot  till  they  have  drawn  from  it  the  last  radiation 
of  warmth.  Similar  instances  of  coutentedness,  and  sharp- 
witted  profiting  by  what  otherwise  would  be  wasted,  occur 
here  in  great  number.  I notice  in  this  people  the  most 
shrewd  and  active  industry,  not  to  get  rich,  but  to  live  free 
from  care. 


248 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


Etzxixg. 

In  order  not  to  make  a mistake  yesterda}"  as  to  the  house 
of  my  odd  little  princess,  and  to  bo  there  in  time,  I called  a 
hackney  carriage.  It  stopped  before  the  grand  entrance  of 
a spacious  palace.  As  I had  no  idea  of  coming  to  so  splen- 
did a dwelling,  I repeated  to  him  most  distinctly  the  name  : 
he  assured  me  it  was  quite  right.  I soon  found  mj'self  in  a 
spacious  court,  still  and  lonesome,  empt}'  and  clean,  enclosed 
by  the  principal  edifice  and  side  buildings.  The  architecture 
was  the  well-known  light  Neapolitan  style,  as  was  also  the 
coloring.  Eight  before  me  was  a grand  porch,  and  a broad 
but  not  very  high  flight  of  steps.  On  both  sides  of  it  stood 
a line  of  servauts  in  splendid  liveries,  who,  as  I passed  them, 
bowed  very  low.  I thought  m\'self  the  Sultan  in  AVieland’s 
fairy  tale,  and,  after  his  example,  took  courage.  Next  I was 
received  by  the  upper  domestics,  till  at  last  the  most  courtlj' 
of  them  opened  a door,  and  introduced  me  into  a spacious 
apartment,  which  was  as  splendid,  but  also  as  empt}’  of 
people,  as  all  liefore.  In  passing  up  and  down,  I observed  in 
a side-room  a table  laid  out  for  about  forty  persons,  with  a 
splendor  corresponding  with  all  around.  A secular  priest 
now  entered,  and  without  asking  who  I was,  or  whence  I 
came,  approached  me  as  if  I were  already  known  to  him, 
and  conversed  on  the  most  general  topics. 

A pair  of  folding  doors  were  now  thrown  open,  and  imme- 
diately closed  again,  when  a gentleman  rather  advanced  in 
years  had  entered.  The  priest  immediately  proceeded 
towards  him,  as  I also  did.  4Ve  greeted  him  with  a few 
words  of  courtesy,  which  he  returned  in  a barking,  stuttering 
tone,  so  that  I could  scarceh'  make  out  a syllable  of  his 
Hottentot  dialect.  'When  he  had  taken  his  place  by  the 
stove,  the  priest  moved  away,  and  I accompanied  him.  A 
portly  Benedictine  entered,  accompanied  b}’  a younger  mcm- 
iier  of  his  order.  He  went  to  salute  the  host.  and.  after 
being  also  barked  at,  retired  to  a window.  The  recjulur 
clergy,  especially  those  whose  dress  is  becoming,  have  great 
advantage  in  society  : their  costume  is  a mark  of  humility 
and  renunciation  of  self,  while,  at  the  same  time,  it  lends  to 
its  wearers  a decidedly  dignified  appearance.  In  their  behav- 
ior the}'  may  easily,  without  degrading  themselves,  appear 
sulmiissive  and  complying  ; and  then  again,  when  they  stand 
upon  their  own  dignity,  their  self-respect  is  well  becoming 
to  them,  although  in  others  it  would  not  be  so  readily 
allowed  to  pass.  This  was  the  case  with  this  person.  AVhen 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


249‘ 


I asked  him  about  Monte  Cassino,  he  immediately  gave 
me  an  invitation  thither,  and  promised  me  the  best  of  wel- 
i comes.  In  the  mean  time  the  room  had  become  full  of  peo- 
I pie : officers,  people  of  the  court,  more  regulars,  and  even 
I some  Capuchins,  had  arrived.  Once  more  a set  of  folding- 
doors  opened  and  shut : an  aged  lady,  somewhat  older  than 
my  host,  had  entered ; and  now  the  presence  of  what  I took 
' to  be  the  lady  of  the  house,  made  me  feel  perfectly  confident 
that  I was  in  a strange  mansion,  and  wdiolly  unknown  to  its 
inmates.  Dinner  was  now  served  ; and  I was  keeping  close 
I to  the  side  of  my  friends,  the  monks,  in  order  to  slip  with 
them  into  the  paradise  of  the  dining-room,  when  all  at  once 
I saw  Filangieri,  with  his  wife,  enter  and  make  his  excuses 
j for  being  so  late.  Shortly  after  this  my  little  princess  came 
I into  the  room,  and  with  nods,  and  winks,  and  bows,  to  all  as 
she  passed,  came  straight  to  me.  “It  is  very  good  of  you 
to  keep  your  word,”  she  exclaimed  : “ mind  you  sit  by  me, 

; — j'ou  shall  have  the  best  bits, — wait  a minute  though  ; I 

; must  find  out  which  is  my  proper  place,  then  mind  and  take 

I your  place  by  me.”  Thus  commanded,  I followed  the  vari- 

ous windings  she  made,  and  at  last  we  reached  our  seats, 
j Benedictine  sitting  right  opposite,  and  Filangieri  on  my 
! other  side.  “The  dishes  are  all  good,”  she  observed, — 
“ all  Lenten  fare,  but  choice  ; ITl  point  out  to  you  the  best. 
But  now  I must  rally  the  priests,  — the  churls  ! I can’t  bear 
i them  : every  day  they  are  cutting  a fresh  slice  off  our  estate. 
What  we  have,  we  should  like  to  spend  on  ourselves  and  our 
friends.”  The  soup  was  now  handed  round, — the  Beue- 
I dictiue  was  sipping  his  very  deliberately.  “ Pray  don’t  put 
yourself  out  of  your  way,  — the  spoon  is  too  small,  I fear; 
I will  bid  them  bring  you  a larger  one.  Your  reverences 
are  used  to  a good  mouthful.”  The  good  father  replied, 

1 “In  your  house,  lady,  every  thing  is  so  excellent,  and  so 
I well  arranged,  that  much  more  distinguished  guests  than 

I your  humble  servant  would  find  every  thing  to  their  heart’s 

content.” 

I Of  the  pasties  the  Benedictine  took  only  one.  She  called 
out  to  him,  “ Pray  take  half  a dozen  : pastry,  j’our  rev- 
erence surely  knows,  is  easy  of  digestion.”  With  good 
sense  he  took  another  pasty,  thanking  the  princess  for  her 
attention  just  as  if  he  had  not  seen  through  her  malicious 
raillery.  And  so,  also,  some  solid  paste-work  furnished  her 
j with  occasion  for  venting  her  spite  ; for,  as  the  monk  helped 
himself  to  a piece,  a second  rolled  off  the  dish  towards  his 


250 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


plate.  “A  third!  your  reverence:  you  seem  anxious  to 
lay  a foundation.”  — “When  such  excellent  materials  are 
furnished  to  his  hand,  the  architect’s  labors  are  easy.”  re- 
joined his  reverence.  Thus  she  went  on  continually,  only 
pausing  a while  to  keep  her  promise  of  pointing  out  to  me 
the  best  dishes. 

All  this  while  I was  conversing  with  my  neighbor  on  the 
gravest  topics.  Absolutely,  I never  heard  Filangieri  utter 
an  unmeaning  sentence.  In  this  respect,  and  indeed  in 
many  others,  he  resembles  our  worthy  friend,  George  Schlos- 
ser ; with  this  difference,  that  the  former,  as  a Aeapohtau 
and  a man  of  the  world,  had  a softer  nature  and  an  easier 
manner. 

During  the  whole  of  this  time  my  roguish  neighbor  allowed 
the  clerical  gentry  not  a moment’s  truce.  Al)ove  all,  the 
fish  at  this  Lenten  meal,  dished  up  in  imitation  of  flesh  of  all 
kinds,  furnished  her  with  inexhaustible  opportunities  for  all 
manner  of  irreverent  and  ill-natured  observations.  I-lspc- 
cially  in  justification  and  defence  of  a taste  for  flesh,  she 
observed  that  people  would  have  the  form,  to  give  a relish, 
even  when  the  essence  was  prohibited. 

Many  more  such  jokes  were  noticed  by  me  at  the  time, 
but  I am  not  in  the  humor  to  repeat  them.  Jokes  of  this 
kind,  when  first  spoken,  and  falling  from  beautiful  lips,  may 
be  tolerable,  not  to  say  amusing ; but,  set  down  in  black  and 
white,  they  lose  all  charm,  — for  me  at  least.  Then  again, 
the  boldly  hazarded  stroke  of  wit  has  this  peculiarity,  that, 
at  the  moment,  it  pleases  us  while  it  astonishes  us  l)y  its 
boldness  ; but  when  told  afterwards,  it  sounds  offensive,  and 
disgusts  us. 

The  dessert  was  brought  in,  and  I was  afraid  that  the 
cross-fire  would  still  be  kept  up,  when  suddenly  my  fair 
neighbor  turned  quite  composedly  to  me  and  said,  “ The 
priests  maj*  gulp  their  Syracusan  wine  in  peace,  for  I can- 
not succeed  in  worrying  a single  one  to  death,  — no.  not 
even  in  spoiling  their  appetites.  Mow,  let  me  have  some 
rational  talk  with  you  ; for  what  a heavy  sort  of  thing  must 
a conversation  with  Filangieri  be  ! The  good  creature  I he 
gives  'himself  a great  deal  of  trouble  for  nothing.  I often 
say  to  him,  ‘ If  you  make  new  laws,  we  must  give  ourselves 
fresh  pains  to  find  out  how  we  can  forthwith  transgress  them, 
just  as  we  have  already  set  at  naught  the  old.  ’ Only  look 
now,  how  beautiful  Naples  is!  For  these  many  years  the 
people  have  lived  free  from  care  and  contented  ; and  if  now 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


251 


and  then  some  poor  wretch  is  hanged,  all  the  rest  still  pur- 
sne  their  own  merry  course.”  She  then  proposed  that  I 
should  pay  a visit  to  Sorrento,  where  she  had  a large  estate. 
Her  steward  would  feast  me  with  the  best  of  fish,  and  the 
delicious  munqana  (flesh  of  a sucking  calf).  The  moun- 
tain air,  and  the  unequalled  prospect,  would  be  sure  to  cure 
me  of  all  philosophy.  Then  she  would  come  herself,  and 
not  a trace  should  remain  of  all  my  wrinkles,  — which  at 
any  rate  I had  allowed  to  come  on  before  their  time,  ^ and 
together  we  would  have  a right  merry  time  of  it. 

Naples,  March  13,  1787. 

To-day  also  I write  you  a few  lines,  in  order  that  letter 
may  provoke  letter.  Things  go  well  with  me  : however,  I 
see  less  than  I ought.  The  place  induces  an  indolent  and 
easy  sort  of  life : nevertheless,  my  idea  of  it  is  gradually 
becoming  more  and  more  complete. 

On  Sunday  we  were  in  Pompeii.  Many  a calamity  has 
happened  in  the  world,  but  never  one  that  has  caused  so 
much  entertainment  to  posterity  as  this  one.  I scarcely 
know  of  any  thing  that  is  more  interesting.  The  houses  are 
small  and  close  together,  but  within  they  are  all  most  exquis- 
itely painted.  The  gate  of  the  city  is  remarkable,  with  the 
tombs  close  to  it.  The  tomb  of  a priestess,  a semicircular 
bench,  with  a stone  back,  on  which  was  the  inscription  cut 
in  large  characters.  Over  the  back  you  have  a sight  of 
the  sea  and  the  setting  sun,  — a glorious  spot,  worthy  of  the 
beautiful  idea. 

We  found  there  good  and  merry  company  from  Naples  ; 
the  men  are  perfectly  natural,  and  light-hearted.  We  took 
dinner  at  “Torre  delT  Annuuziata,”  with  our  table  placed 
close  to  the  sea.  The  day  was  extremely  fine.  The  view 
towards  Castellamare  and  Sorrento,  near  and  incompara- 
ble. My  companions  were  quite  rapturous  in  praise  of  their 
native  place  : some  asserted  that  without  a sight  of  the  sea 
it  was  impossible  to  live.  To  me  it  is  quite  enough  that  I 
have  its  image  in  my  soul,  and  so,  when  the  time  comes, 
may  safely  return  to  my  mountain  home. 

Fortunately,  there  is  here  a very  honest  painter  of  land- 
scapes, who  imparts  to  his  pieces  the  impression  of  the  rich 
and  open  country  around.  He  has  alread}’  executed  some 
sketches  for  me. 

The  Vesuvian  productions  I have  now  pretty  well  studied : 
things,  however,  assume  a different  signification  when  one 


252 


LETTERS  FRO.M  ITA1.Y. 


sees  them  in  connection.  Properly,  I ought  to  devote  the 
rest  of  my  life  to  observation : I should  discover  much  that 
would  enlarge  man’s  knowledge.  Pray  tell  Herder  that  my 
botanical  discoveries  are  continually  advancing  : it  is  still  the 
same  principle,  but  it  requires  a whole  life  to  work  it  out. 
Perhaps  I am  already  in  a situation  to  draw  the  leading  lines 
of  it. 

I can  now  enjoy  myself  at  the  museum  of  Portici.  Usually 
people  make  it  the  first  object : we  mean  to  make  it  our 
last.  As  yet  I do  not  know  whether  I shall  be  able  to  extend 
my  tour  : all  things  tend  to  drive  me  back  to  Rome  at  Easter. 
I shall  let  things  take  their  course. 

Angelica  has  undertaken  to  paint  a scene  of  my  “ Iphi- 
genia.”  The  thought  is  a very  happy  subject  for  a picture, 
and  she  will  delineate  it  excellentl}*.  It  is  the  moment  when 
Orestes  finds  himself  again  in  the  presence  of  his  sister  and 
his  friend.  What  the  three  characters  are  saying  to  each 
other  she  has  indicated  by  the  grouping,  and  given  their 
words  in  the  expressions  of  their  countenances.  From  this 
description  you  may  judge  how  keenly  sensitive  she  is,  and 
how  quick  she  is  to  seize  whatever  is  adapted  to  her  nature. 
And  it  is  really  the  turning-point  of  the  whole  drama. 

Farewell,  and  love  me ! Here  the  people  are  all  very 
good,  even  though  they  do  not  know  what  to  make  of  me. 
Tischbein,  on  the  other  hand,  pleases  them  far  better.  This 
evening  he  hastily  painted  some  heads  of  the  size  of  life,  at 
and  about  which  they  disported  themselves  as  strangely  as 
the  New  Zealanders  at  the  sight  of  a ship  of  war.  Of  this 
an  amusing  anecdote. 

Tischbein  has  a great  knack  of  etching  with  a pen  the 
shapes  of  gods  and  heroes,  of  the  size  of  life,  and  even 
more.  He  uses  very  few  lines,  but  cleverly’  puts  in  the 
shades  with  a broad  pencil,  so  that  the  heads  stand  out 
roundly  and  nobly.  The  by-standers  looked  on  with  amaze- 
ment, and  were  highly  delighted.  At  last  an  itching  seized 
their  fingers  to  try  and  paint : they  snatched  the  brushes, 
and  painted  — one  another’s  beards,  daubing  each  other’s 
faces.  Was  not  this  an  original  trait  of  human  nature?  And 
this  was  done  in  an  elegant  circle,  in  the  house  of  one  who 
was  himself  a clever  draughtsman  .and  painter  ! It  is  impos- 
sible to  form  an  idea  of  this  race  without  having  seen  them. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


253 


Caserta, 

■Wednesday,  March  14,  1787. 

I am  here  on  a visit  to  Flackert,  in  his  highly  agreeable 
apartments  which  have  been  assigned  him  in  the  ancient 
castle.  The  new  palace,  somewhat  huge  and  Escurial-like, 
of  a quadrangular  plan,  with  many  courts,  is  royal  enough. 
The  site  is  uncommonly  fine,  on  one  of  the  most  fertile  plains 
in  the  world,  and  yet  the  gardens  trench  on  the  mountains. 
From  these  an  aqueduct  brings  down  an  entire  river  to  sup- 
ply water  to  the  palace  and  the  district ; and  the  whole  can, 
on,pccasion,  be  thrown  on  some  artificially  arranged  rocks,  to 
form  a most  glorious  cascade.  The  gardens  are  beautifully 
laid  out,  and  suit  well  with  a district  which  itself  is  thought 
a garden. 

The  castle  is  truly  kingly.  It  appears  to  me,  however, 
particularly  gloomy  ; and  no  one  of  us  could  bring  himself 
to  think  the  vast  and  empty  rooms  comfortable.  The  king 
probably  is  of  the  same  opinion  ; for  he  has  caused  a house 
to  be  built  on  the  mountains,  which,  smaller  and  more  ])ro- 
portioned  to  man’s  littleness,  is  intended  for  a hunting-box 
and  country-seat. 

Casfrta 

Thursday,  March’ 15,  1787. 

Hackert  is  lodged  very  comfortably  in  the  old  castle  : it  is 
quite  roomy  enough  for  all  his  guests.  Constantly  busy  with 
drawing  and  painting,  he,  nevertheless,  is  very  social,  and 
easily  draws  men  around  him,  as  in  the  end  he  generally 
makes  every  one  become  his  scholar.  He  has  also  quite  won 
me  by  putting  iqD  patiently  with  my  weaknesses,  and  insists, 
above  all  things,  on  distinctness  of  drawing,  and  marked  and 
clear  keeping.  When  he  paints,  he  has  three  colors  always 
ready  ; and  as  he  works  on,  and  uses  one  after  another,  a pic- 
ture is  produced,  one  knows  not  how  or  whence.  I wish  the 
execution  were  as  easy  as  it  looks.  With  his  usual  blunt 

honesty  he  said  to , “You  have  capacity,  but  you  are 

unable  to  accomplish  any  thing : stay  with  me  a year  and  a 
half,  and  you  shall  be  able  to  produce  such  works  as  shall 
be  a delight  to  yourself  and  to  others.”  Is  not  this  a text  on 
which  one  might  preach  eternally  to  dilettanti?  “ We  would 
like  to  see  what  sort  of  a pupil  we  can  make  of  j'ou.” 

The- special  confidence  with  which  the  queen  honors  him 
is  evinced  not  merely  by  the  fact  that  he  gives  lessons  in 
practice  to  the  princesses,  but  still  more  so  by  his  being  fin- 


254 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


quently  summoned  of  an  evening  to  talk  with,  and  instract 
them  on  art  and  kindred  subjects.  He  makes  Sulzer’s  book 
the  basis  of  such  lectures,  selecting  the  articles  as  entertain- 
ment or  conviction  maj'  be  his  snlrject. 

I was  obliged  to  approve  of  this,  and,  in  consequence,  to 
laugh  at  myself.  What  a difference  is  there  between  him 
who  wishes  to  investigate  principles,  and  one  whose  highest 
object  is  to  work  on  the  world  and  to  teach  them  for  their 
mere  private  amusement.  Sulzer’s  theory  was  always  odious 
to  me  on  account  of  the  falseness  of  its  fundamental  maxim, 
but  now  I saw  that  the  book  contained  much  more  than  the 
multitude  require.  The  varied  information  which  is  here 
communicated,  the  mode  of  thinking  with  which  alone  so 
active  a mind  as  Sulzer’s  could  be  satisfied,  must  have  been 
quite  sufficient  for  the  ordinary  run  of  people. 

Many  happy  and  profitable  hours  have  I spent  with  the 
picture-restorer  Anders;  who  has  been  summoned  hither  from 
Rome,  and  resides  in  the  castle,  and  industriously  pursues 
his  work,  in  which  the  king  takes  a great  interest.  Of  his 
skill  in  restoring  old  paintings,  I dare  not  begin  to  speak ; 
since  it  would  be  necessary  to  describe  the  whole  process  of 
this  }'et  difficult  craft,  and  wherein  consists  the  difficulty 
of  the  problem,  and  the  merit  of  success. 

Casekta,  March  1C,  1787. 

Your  dear  letter  of  the  19th  February  reached  me  to-day, 
and  I must  forthwith  despatch  a word  or  two  in  rcph'.  How 
glad  should  I be  to  come  to  my  senses  again,  b}’  thinking  of 
my  friends  ! 

Naples  is  a paradise : in  it  eveiy  one  lives  in  a sort  of  . 
intoxicated  self-forgetfulness.  It  is  even  so  with  me : I 1 
scarcely  know  myself ; I seem  to  myself  quite  an  altered  i 
man.  Yesterday  I said  to  myself,  “ Either  3mu  have  alwai's  ; 
been  mad,  or  you  are  so  now.”  ' 

I have  paid  a visit  to  the  ruins  of  ancient  Capua,  and  all  | 
that  is  connected  with  it. 

In  this  country  one  first  begins  to  have  a tnie  idea  of  what 
vegetation  is,  and  why  man  tills  the  fields.  The  flax  here  is 
already  near  to  blossoming,  and  the  wheat  a si)an  and  a half 
high.  Around  Caserta  the  land  is  perfectlv  level,  the  fields 
worked  as  clean  and  as  fine  as  the  beds  of  a garden.  All  of  ■ 
them  are  planted  with  poplars,  and  from  ti'ee  to  tree  the  vine 
spreads  ; and  }’et,  notwithstanding  this  shade,  the  soil  below  i 
produces  the  finest  and  most  abundant  crops  possible.  hat  i 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY.  . 


255 


will  they  be  when  the  spring  shall  come  in  power  ? Hitherto 
we  have  had  very  cold  winds,  and  there  has  been  snow  on 
the  mountains. 

Within  a fortnight  I must  decide  whether  to  go  to  Sicily 
or  not.  Never  before  have  I been  so  tossed  backward  and 
forward  in  coming  to  a resolution  : every  day  something  will 
occur  to  recommend  the  trip  ; the  next  morning  some  cir- 
cumstance will  be  against  it.  Two  spirits  are  contending 
for  me. 

I say  this  in  confidence,  and  for  my  female  friends  alone  : 
speak  not  a word  of  it  to  my  male  friends.  I am  well  aware 
that  my  “ Iphigenia”  has  fared  strangely.  The  public  were 
so  accustomed  to  the  old  form,  expressions  which  they  had 
adopted  from  frequent  hearing  and  reading  were  familiar 
to  them  ; and  now'  quite  a different  tone  is  sounding  in  their 
ears,  and  I clearly  see  that  no  one,  in  fact,  thanks  me  for 
the  endless  pains  I have  been  at.  Such  a work  is  never 
finished : it  must,  however,  pass  for  such,  as  soon  as  the 
author  has  done  his  utmost,  considering  time  and  circum- 
stances. 

All  this,  however,  will  not  be  able  to  deter  me  from  trying 
a similar  operation  with  “Tasso.”  Perhaps  it  w'ould  be 
better  to  throw  it  into  the  fire  ; however,  I shall  adhere  to 
my  resolution  ; and  since  it  must  be  what  it  is,  I shall  make  a 
wonderful  work  of  it.  On  this  account,  I am  pleased  to  find 
that  the  printing  of  my  works  goes  on  so  slowly ; and  then, 
again,  it  is  well  to  be  at  a distance  from  the  murmurs  of  the 
compositor.  Strange  enough,  that,  even  in  one’s  most  iu- 
pendent  actions,  one  expects  — nay,  requires  — a stimulus. 

Casekta,  March  16, 1787. 

If  in  Rome  one  can  readily  set  one’s  self  to  study,  here 
one  can  do  nothing  but  live.  You  forget  yourself  and  the 
world ; and  to  me  it  is  a strange  feeling  to  go  about  with 
people  who  think  of  nothing  but  enjoying  themselves.  Sir 
William  Hamilton,  who  still  resides  here  as  ambassador  from 
England,  has  at  length,  after  his  long  love  of  art  and  long 
study,  discovered  the  most  perfect  of  admirers  of  nature  and 
art  in  a beautiful  young  woman.  She  lives  with  him,  — an 
English  woman  about  twenty  years  old.  She  is  very  hand- 
some, and  of  a beautiful  figure.  The  old  knight  has  had 
made  for  her  a Greek  costume,  which  becomes  her  extremely. 
Dressed  in  this,  and  letting  her  hair  loose,  and  taking  a 
couple  of  shawls,  she  exhibits  every  possible  variety  of  pos- 


256 


LETTERS  FROiM  ITALY. 


ture,  expression,  and  look,  so  that  at  the  last  the  spectator  « 
almost  fancies  it  is  a dream.  One  beholds  here  in  perfection,  1. 
in  movement,  in  ravishing  variety,  all  that  the  greatest  of  |f 
artists  have  rejoiced  to  be  able  to  produce.  Standing,  kneel-  !.*■ 
ing,  sitting,  lying  down,  grave  or  sad,  playful,  exulting, 
repentant,  wanton,  menacing,  anxious,  — all  mental  states 
follow  rapidly,  one  after  another.  With  wonderful  taste  she  ■/ 
suits  the  folding  of  her  veil  to  each  expression,  and  with  the  , 
same  haudkercbief  makes  every  kind  of  head-dress.  The  r 
old  knight  holds  the  light  for  her,  and  enters  into  the  ex-  4 

hibitiou  with  his  whole  soul.  He  thinks  he  can  discern  in  I 

her  a resemblance  to  all  the  most  famous  antiques,  all  the  ■ 
beautiful  profiles  on  the  Sicilian  coins,  — ay,  of  the  Apollo 
Belvedere  itself.  This  much  at  any  rate  is  certain,  — the 
entertainment  is  unique.  We  spent  two  evenings  on  it  with 
thorough  enjoyment.  To-day  Tischbein  is  engaged  in  paint- 
ing her. 

What  I have  seen  and  inferred  of  the  personnel  of  the  4 
Court  requires  to  be  further  tested,  before  I set  it  down.  | 
To-da}"  the  king  is  gone  hunting  the  wolves : they  hope  to  I 

kill  at  least  five.  ] 

Naples,  March  17, 17ST.  | 

When  I would  write  words,  images  onh'  start  before  my  I 
eyes,  — the  beautiful  laud,  the  free  sea,  the  hazy  islands,  | 
the  roaring  mountain  ! Powers  to  delineate  all  this  fad  me. 

Here  in  this  country  one  at  last  understands  how  man 
could  ever  take  it  into  his  head  to  till  the  ground,  — here, 
where  it  produces  eveiy  thing,  and  where  one  may  look  for 
as  many  as  from  thi’ee  to  five  crops  in  the  year. 

I have  seen  much,  and  reflected  still  more.  The  world 
opens  itself  to  me  more  and  more  : all  even  that  I have  I 
long  known  is  at  last  becoming  my  own.  How  quick  to 
know,  but  how  slow  to  put  in  practice,  is  the  human  creature ! 

The  oul}^  pity  is,  that  I cannot  at  each  moment  communi- 
cate to  others  m3’  observations.  But,  both  as  man  and  artist, 
one  is  here  driven  backward  and  forward  by  a hundred  ideas 
of  his  own,  while  his  services  are  put  in  requisition  by  hun- 
dreds of  persons.  His  situation  is  peculiar  and  strange : 
he  cannot  freely  sympathize  with  another’s  being,  because 
he  finds  his  own  exertions  so  put  to  the  stretch. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


257 


And,  after  all,  the  world  is  nothing  but  a wheel.  In  its 
whole  periphery  it  is  everywhere  similar  ; but,  nevertheless, 
it  appears  to  us  so  strange,  because  we  ourselves  are  carried 
round  with  it. 

What  I always  said  has  actually  come  to  pass  : in  this  land 
alone  do  I begin  to  understand  and  to  unravel  many  a phe- 
nomenon of  nature,  and  complication  of  opinion.  I am 
gathering  from  every  quarter,  and  shall  bring  back  with  me 
a great  deal,  — certainly  much  love  of  my  own  native  laud, 
and  joy  to  live  with  a few  dear  frieuds. 

With  regard  to  my  Sicilian  tour,  the  gods  still  hold  the 
scales  in  their  hands  : the  index  still  wavers. 

Who  can  the  friend  be  who  has  been  thus  mysteriously 
announced  ? Only,  may  I not  neglect  him  in  my  pilgrimage 
and  tour  in  the  island  ! 

The  frigate  from  Palermo  has  returned  : in  eight  days  she 
sets  sail  again.  Whether  I shall  sail  with  it,  and  be  back 
at  Rome  by  Passion  Week,  I have  not  as  yet  determined. 
Never  in  my  life  have  I been  so  undecided : a trifle  will  turn 
the  scale. 

With  men  I get  on  rather  better : for  I feel  that  one  must 
weigh  them  by  avoirdupois  weight,  and  not  by  the  jewel- 
ler’s scales  ; as,  unfortunately,  friends  too  often  weigh  one 
another  in  their  h^’pochoudriacal  humors  and  in  an  over- 
exacting  spirit. 

Here  men  know  nothing  of  one  another.  They  scarcely 
observe  that  others  are  also  going  on  their  way,  side  by  side 
with  them.  They  run  all  day  backward  and  forward  in  a 
paradise,  without  looking  around  them  ; and,  if  the  neigh- 
boring jaws  of  hell  begin  to  open  and  to  rage,  they  jiave 
recourse  to  St.  Januarius. 

To  pass  through  such  a countless  multitude,  with  its  rest- 
less excitement,  is  strange,  but  salutary.  Here  they  are  all 
crossing  and  recrossing  one  another,  and  yet  every  one  finds 
his  way  and  his  object.  In  so  great  a crowd  and  bustle  I 
feel  more  calm  and  solitary  than  on  other  occasions  : the 
more  bustling  the  streets  become,  the  more  quietly  I move. 


258  LETTERS  FROM  ITALY.  || 

Often  do  I think  of  Ronssean  and  his  hypochondiiacal  | 
discontent ; and  I can  thoionghl}'  understand  liow  so  fine  an  h' 
organization  may  have  been  deranged.  Did  1 not  m\’self  'I 
feel  such  sympathy  with  natural  objects  ; and  did  I not  see, 
that,  in  the  apparent  perplexity,  a hundred  seemingl}-  con-  |J 
trary  observations  admit  of  being  reconciled,  and  arranged  If 
side  by  side,  just  as  the  geometer  b}'  a cross  line  tests  many  7 
measurements,  I should  often  think  myself  mad.  , 

Naples,  March  18,  1787.  || 

We  must  not  any  longer  put  off  our  visit  to  Herculaneum,  J 
and  the  Museum  of  Portici,  where  the  curiosities  which  have  if 
been  dug  out  of  it  are  collected  and  preserved.  That  ancient  ‘i 
city,  lying  at  the  foot  of  Vesuvius,  was  entirely  covered  with  rl 
lava,  which  subsequent  eruptions  successive!}"  raised  so  high  1* 
that  the  buildings  are  at  present  sixty  feet  below  the  surface.  (| 
The  city  was  discovered  by  some  men  coming  upon  a marble  1 
pavement,  as  they  were  digging  a well.  It  is  a great  pity 
that  the  excavation  was  not  executed  systematically  by  Ger-  1 
man  miners  ; for  it  is  admitted  that  the  work,  which  was  i 
carried  on  at  random,  and  with  the  hope  of  plunder,  has  i 
spoilt  many  a noble  monument  of  ancient  art.  After  de- 
scending sixty  steps  into  a pit,  by  torch-light,  you  gaze  in  1 
admiration  at  the  theatre  which  once  stood  beneath  the  open  1 
sky,  and  listen  to  the  guide  recounting  all  that  was  found  1 1 
there,  and  carried  off.  . 

We  entered  the  museum  well  recommended,  and  were  well  It 
received:  nevertheless,  we  were  not  allowed  to  take  any  I 
drawings.  Perhaps  on  this  account  we  ])aid  the  more  atten-  \ 
tion  to  what  we  saw,  and  the  more  vividly  transported  our-  f 
selves  into  those  long-passed  times,  when  all  these  things  * 
surrounded  their  living  owners,  and  ministered  to  the  use  < 
and  enjoyment  of  life.  The  little  houses  and  rooms  of  1 
Pompeii  now  appeared  to  me  at  once  more  spacious  and 
more  confined,  — more  confined,  because  I fancied  them  to 
myself  crammed  full  of  so  many  pi-ecious  objects  ; more 
spacious,  because  these  very  objects  could  not  have  been  1 
furnished  merely  as  necessaries,  but,  being  decorated  with 
the  most  graceful  and  ingenious  devices  of  the  imitative 
arts,  must,  while  they  delighted  the  taste,  also  have  enlarged  1 
the  mind  far  beyond  what  the  amplest  house-room  could  ever 
have  done. 

One  sees  here,  for  instance,  a nobly-shaped  pail,  mounted 
at  the  top  with  a highly-ornamented  edge.  When  \ ou  exam- 


LETTERS  FROiM  ITALY. 


259 


ine  it  more  closely,  you  find  that  this  rim  rises  on  two  sides, 
and  so  furnishes  convenient  handles  by  which  the  vessel 
may  be  lifted.  The  lamps,  according  to  the  number  of  their 
wicks,  are  ornamented  with  masks  and  mountings,  so  that 
each  burner  illuminates  a genuine  figure  of  art.  We  also 
saw  some  high  and  gracefully  slender  stands  of  iron  for 
holding  lamps,  the  pendent  burners  being  suspended  with 
figures  of  all  kinds,  which  displaj^  a wonderful  fertility  of 
invention  ; and  as,  in  order  to  please  and  delight  the  eye, 
they  sway  and  oscillate,  the  effect  surpasses  all  description. 

In  the  hope  of  being  able  to  pay  a second  visit,  we  fol- 
lowed the  usher  from  room  to  room,  and  snatched  all  the 
delight  and  iustruetiou  that  was  possible  from  a cursory 
view. 

Naples, 

Monday,  March  19,  1787. 

Within  these  last  few  days  I have  formed  a new  connec- 
tion. Tischbein  has  for  three  or  four  weeks  faithfully  lent 
me  all  the  .assistance  in  his  power,  and  diligently  explained 
to  me  the  works  both  of  nature  and  art.  Yesterday,  how- 
ever, after  being  at  the  Museum  of  Portici,  we  had  some 
conversation  together,  and  came  to  the  conclusion,  that, 
considering  his  own  artistic  objects,  he  could  nob-- perform, 
with  credit  to  himself,  the  works  wdiich,  in  the  hope  of  some 
future  appointment  in  Naples,  he  has  undertaken  for  the 
Court  and  for  several  persons  in  the  city  ; nor  do  justice  to 
my  views,  wishes,  and  fancies.  With  sincere  ,good  wishes 
for  my  success,  he  has  therefore  recommended  to  me  for  my 
constant  companion  a j’oung  man,  whom,  since  I arrived 
here,  I have  often  seen,  not  without  feeling  some  interest 
and  liking  for  him.  His  name  is  Kniep,  who,  after  a long 
stay  at  Rome,  has  come  to  Naples  as  the  true  field  and 
element  of  the  laudscape-painter.  Even  in  Rome  I had 
heard  him  highly  spoken  of  as  a clever  draughtsman,  only 
his  industry  was  not  much  commended.  I have  tolerably 
studied  his  character,  and  think  the  ground  of  this  censure 
arises  rather  from  a want  of  a decision,  wdiich  certainly  may 
be  overcome  if  we  are  long  together.  A favorable  begin- 
uing  confirms  me  in  this  hope  ; and,  if  he  continues  to  go  on 
thus,  we  shall  continue  good  companions  for  some  time. 

Naples,  March  19,  1787. 

One  needs  only  walk  along  the  streets,  and  keep  his  eyes 
well  open,  and  he  is  sure  to  see  the  most  unequalled  scenes. 


260 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


At  the  Mole,  one  of  the  noisiest  quarters  of  the  city,  I saw  i 
yesterday  a Puleiuello,  who,  on  a temporary  stage  of  planks, 
was  quarrelling  with  an  ape  ; while  from  a balcony  above,  a 
right  pretty  maiden  was  exposing  her  charms  to  evei-y  eye.  !i| 
Not  far  from  the  ape  and  his  stage,  a quack  doctor  was  ■' 
recommending  to  the  credulous  crowd  his  nostrums  for  eveiy 
evil.  Such  a scene  painted  by  a Gerard  Dow  would  not  fail 
to  charm  contemporaries  and  posterity. 

To-day,  moreover,  was  the  festival  of  St.  Joseph.  He  is 
the  patron  of  all  Fritaruoli, — that  is,  pastiy-cooks,  — and 
understands  baking  in  a very  extensive  sense.  Because 
beneaTh  the  black  and  seething  oil  hot  flames  will  of  course 
rage,  therefore  every  kind  of  torture  by  fire  falls  within 
Ins  province.  Accordingly,  yesterday  evening  being  the  eve 
of  the  saint’s  dajq  the  fronts  of  the  houses  were  adorned 
with  pictures,  to  the  best  of  the  inmates’  skill,  representing 
souls  in  Purgatory,  or  the  Last  Judgment,  with  plenty  of 
fire  and  flame.  Before  the  doors,  frying-pans  were  hissing 
on  hastily  constructed  hearths.  Oue  partner  was  working 
the  dough ; another  shaped  it  into  twists,  and  threw  it  into  * 
the  boiling  lard  ; a third  stood  by  the  frying-pan,  holding  a 
short  skewer,  with  which  he  drew  out  the  twists  as  soon  as 
tliey  were  done,  and  shoved  them  off  on  another  skewer  to  a 
fourth  party,  who  offered  them  to  the  by-standers.  The  two 
last  were  generall}’  young  apprentices,  and  wore  white  curly 
wigs  ; this  head-dress  being  the  Neapolitan  symbol  of  an 
angel.  Other  figures  besides  completed  the  group ; and 
these  were  busy  in  presenting  wine  to  the  busy  cooks,  or  in 
drinking  themselves,  shouting,  and  puffing  the  article  all  the 
while.  The  angels,  too,  and  cooks,  were  all  clamoring.  The 
l^eople  crowded  to  buy  ; for  all  pastry  is  sold  cheap  on  this 
evening,  and  a part  of  the  profits  given  to  the  poor. 

Scenes  of  this  kind  may  be  witnessed  without  end.  Thus 
fares  it  every  day,  — always  something  new,  some  fresh 
absurdity.  The  variety  of  costume,  too,  that  meets  you  in 
the  streets ; the  multitude,  too,  of  passages  in  the  Toledo 
Street  alone ! 

Thus  there  is  plenty  of  most  original  entertainment,  if 
only  one  will  live  with  the  people : it  is  so  natural,  that  one 
almost  becomes  natural  one’s  self.  For  this  is  the  original 
birthplace  of  Puleiuello,  the  true  national  mask.  — the  Har- 
lequin of  Pergamo,  and  the  Hauswurst  of  the  Tyrol.  This 
Puleiuello,  now,  is  a thoroughly  easy,  sedate,  somewhat  indif- 
ferent, perhaps  lazy,  and  yet  humorous  fellow.  And  so  oue 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


261 


meets  everywhere  with  a “ Kellner  ” and  a “ Hausknecht.” 
With  onrs  I had  special  fini  yesterday,  and  yet  there  was 
nothing  more  than  my  sending  him  to  fetch  some  paper  and 
pens.  A half  misnnderstanding,  a little  loitering,  good 
humor  and  roguery,  produced  a most  amusing  scene,  which 
might  be  very  successfully  brought  out  on  any  stage. 

Naples, 

Tuesday,  March  20,  1787. 

The  news  that  an  eruption  of  lava  had  just  commenced, 
which,  taking  the  direction  of  Ottajano,  was  invisible  at 
Naples,  tempted  me  to  visit  Vesuvius  for  the  third  time. 
Scarcely  haci  I jumped  out  of  my  cabriolet  (zweiradrigen 
einpferdigen  Fuhrwerk),  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  when 
immediately  appeared  the  two  guides  who  had  accompanied 
us  on  our  previous  ascent.  I had  no  wish  to  do  without 
either,  but  took  one  out  of  gratitude  and  custom,  the  other 
for  reliance  on  his  judgment,  and  the  two  for  the  greater 
convenience.  Having  ascended  the  summit,  the  older  guide 
remained  with  our  cloaks  and  refreshment,  while  the  younger 
followed  me ; and  we  boldly  went  straight  towards  a dense 
volume  of  smoke,  which  broke  forth  from  the  bottom  of  the 
funnel : then  we  quickly  w'eut  downwards  by  the  side  of  it, 

■ till  at  last,  under  the  clear  heaven,  we  distinctly  saw  the 
lava  emitted  from  the  rolling  clouds  of  smoke. 

We  may  hear  an  object  spoken  of  a thousand  times,  but 
its  peculiar  features  will  never  be  caught  till  we  see  it  with 
our  own  ej^es.  The  stream  of  lava  was  narrow,  not  broader 
I perhaps  than  ten  feet,  but  the  way  in  which  it  flowed  down 
a gentle  and  tolerabl}'  smooth  plain  was  remarkable.  As  it 
flowed  along,  it  cooled  both  on  the  sides  and  on  the  surface, 
so  that  it  formed  a sort  of  canal,  the  bed  of  which  was  con- 
tinually raised  in  consequence  of  the  molten  mass  congealing 
even  beneath  the  fiery  stream,  Avhich,  with  uniform  action, 
precipitated  right  and  left  the  scoria  which  were  floating  on 
, its  surface.  In  this  way  a regular  dam  was  at  length  thrown 
up,  which  the  glowing  stream  flowed  on  as  quietly  as  any 
i mill-stream.  We  passed  along  the  tolerably  high  dam, 
while  the  scoria  rolled  regularly  off  the  sides  at  our  feet. 

; Some  cracks  in  the  canal  afforded  opportunity  of  looking 
at  the  living  stream  from  below ; and,  as  it  rushed  onward, 

, we  observed  it  from  above. 

; A very  bright  sun  made  the  glowing  lava  look  dull,  but  a 
‘ moderate  steam  rose  from  it  into  the  pure  air.  I felt  a great 


« 


262 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


desire  to  go  nearer  to  the  point  where  it  broke  out  from  the 
mountain  : there,  my  guide  averred,  it  at  once  formed  vaults 
and  roofs  above  itself,  on  which  he  had  often  stood.  To 
see  and  experience  this  phenomenon,  we  again  ascended  the 
hill,  in  order  to  eome  from  behind  to  this  point.  Fortu- 
nately at  this  moment  the  place  was  cleared  by  a pretty 
strong  wind,  but  not  entirel}',  for  all  round  it  the  smoke 
eddied  from  a thousand  crannies ; and  now  we  actually 
stood  on  the  top  of  the  solid  roof,  which  looked  like  a hard- 
ened mass  of  twisted  dough,  but  projected  so  far  outward, 
that  it  was  impossible  to  see  the  welling  lava. 

We  ventured  about  twenty  steps  farther  ; but  the  ground 
on  which  we  stepped  became  hotter  and  hotter,  while  around 
us  rolled  an  oppressive  steam,  whieh  obscured  and  hid  the 
sun.  The  guide,  who  was  a few  steps  in  advance  of  me, 
presently  turned  baek,  and,  siezing  hold  of  me,  hurried  out 
of  this  Stygian  exhalation. 

After  we  had  refreshed  our  ej^es  with  the  elear  prospect, 
and  washed  our  gums  and  throat  with  wine,  we  went  round 
again  to  notice  any  other  peeuliarities  which  might  charac- 
terize this  peak  of  hell,  thus  rearing  itself  iu  the  midst  of  a 
paradise.  I again  observed  attentively  some  chasms,  in 
appearance  like  so  man}'  Vulcanic  forges,  which  emitted  uo 
smoke,  but  continually  shot  out  a steam  of  hot,  glowing 
air.  They  were  all  tapestried,  as  it  were,  with  a kind  of 
stalactite,  which  covered  the  funnel  to  the  top  with  its 
knobs  and  chintz-like  variation  of  colors.  In  consequence 
of  the  irregularity  of  the  forges,  I found  many  specimens 
of  this  sublimation  hanging  within  reach,  so  that,  with  our 
staves  and  a little  contrivance,  we  were  able  to  hack  off  a 
few  and  secure  them.  I had  seen  in  the  shop  of  the  lava- 
dealer  similar  specimens,  labelled  simply  “ Lava  ; ” and  was 
delighted  to  have  discovered  that  it  was  volcanic  soot  precip- 
itated from  the  hot  vapor,  and  distinctly  exhibiting  the  subli- 
mated mineral  particles  it  contained. 

The  most  glorious  sunset,  a heavenly  evening,  refreshed 
me  on  my  return  : still,  I felt  how  all  great  contrasts  con- 
found the  mind  and  senses.  From  the  tenable  to  the  beau- 
tiful — from  the  beautiful  to  the  terrible  : each  destroys  the 
other,  and  produces  a feeling  of  indifference.  Assuredly, 
the  Neapolitan  would  be  quite  a different  creature,  did  he 
not  feel  himself  thus  hemmed  in  between  Elysium  and  Tai'- 
tarus. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


263 


Naples,  March  22, 1787. 

Were  I not  impelled  by  the  German  spirit  and  desire  to 
learn  and  do  rather  than  to  enjoy,  I should  tarry  a little 
longer  in  this  school  of  a light-hearted  and  merry  life,  and 
try  to  profit  by  it  still  more.  Here  it  is  enough  for  content- 
ment, if  a man  has  never  so  small  an  income.  The  situation 
of  the  city,  the  mildness  of  the  climate,  can  never  be  suffi- 
ciently extolled  ; but  it  is  almost  exclusively  to  these  that  the 
stranger  is  referred. 

No  doubt  one  who  has  abundance  of  time,  tact,  and  means, 
might  remain  here  for  a long  time  with  profit  to  himself. 
Thus  Sir  William  Hamilton  has  contrived  highly  to  enjoy  a 
long  i-esidence  in  this  city,  and  now,  in  the  evening  of  his  life, 
is  reaping  the  fruits  of  it.  The  rooms,  which  he  has  had  fur- 
nished in  the  English  style,  are  most  delightful,  and  the  view 
from  the  corner  room  perhaps  unique.  Below  you  is  the  sea, 
with  a view  of  Capri ; Posilippo  on  the  right,  with  the  prom- 
enade of  Villa  Real  between  you  and  the  grotto  ; on  the  left  an 
ancient  building  belonging  to  the  Jesuits  ; and  beyond  it  the 
coast  stretching  from  Sorrento  to  Cape  Minerva.  Another 
prospect  equal  to  this  is  scarcely  to  be  found  in  Europe,  — at 
least,  not  in  the  centre  of  a great  and  populous  city. 

Hamilton  is  a person  of  universal  taste,  and,  after  having 
wandered  through  the  whole  realm  of  creation,  has  found 
rest  at  last  in  a most  beautiful  wife,  a masterpiece  of  the 
great  artist, — Nature. 

And  now  after  all  this,  and  a hundred-fold  more  of  enjoy- 
ment, the  Sirens  from  over  the  sea  are  beckoning  me  ; and  if 
the  wind  is  favorable,  I shall  start  at  the  same  time  with 
this  letter,  — it  for  the  north,  I for  the  south.  The  human 
mind  will  not  be  confined  to  any  limits  : I especially  require 
breadth  and  extent  in  an  eminent  degree ; however,  I must 
content  myself  on  this  occasion  with  a rapid  survejq  and 
must  not  think  of  a long,  fixed  look.  If  by  hearing  and 
thinking,  I can  only  attain  to  as  much  of  any  object  as  a 
finger’s  tip,  I shall  be  able  to  make  out  the  whole  hand. 

Singularly  enough,  within  these  few  days  a friend  has 
spoken  to  me  of  “ Wilhelm  Meister,”  and  urged  me  to  con- 
tinue it.  In  this  climate  I don’t  think  it  possible  : however, 
something  of  the  air  of  this  heaven  may,  perhaps,  be  im- 
parted to  the  closing  books.  May  my  existence  only  unfold 
itself  sufficiently  to  lengthen  the  stem,  and  to  produce  richer 
and  finer  flowers ! Certainly  it  were  better  for  me  never  to 
have  to  come  here  at  all,  than  to  go  away  unregenerated. 


264 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


Yesterday  we  saw  a picture  of  Correggio’s,  which  is  for 
sale.  It  is  not,  indeed,  in  very  good  preservation  : however, 
it  still  retains  the  happiest  stamp  of  all  the  peculiar  channs 
of  this  painter.  It  represents  a Madonna,  with  the  infant 
hesitating  between  the  breast  and  some  pears  which  an  angel 
is  offering  it : the  subject,  therefore,  is  the  weaning  of 
Christ.  To  me  the  idea  appears  extremely  tender ; the 
composition  easy  and  natural,  aud  happily  and  charmingly 
executed.  It  immediately  reminded  me  of  the  Vow  of  St. 
Catherine ; and,  in  my  opinion,  the  painting  is  unquestion- 
ably from  the  hand  of  Correggio. 


Naple-s, 

Friday,  March  23, 1787. 

The  terms  of  my  engagement  with  Kniep  are  now  settled, 
and  it  has  commenced  in  a right  practical  way.  IVe  went 
together  to  Psestum,  where,  aud  also  on  our  journey  thither 
and  back,  he  showed  the  greatest  industry  with  his  pencil. 
He  has  made  some  of  the  most  glorious  outlines.  He  seems 
to  relish  this  moving  but  busy  sort  of  life,  which  has  called 
forth  a talent  he  was  scarcely  conscious  of.  This  comes  of 
being  resolute,  but  it  is  exactl}'  here  that  his  accurate  aud 
nice  skill  shows  itself.  He  never  stops  to  surround  the 
paper  on  which  he  is  about  to  draw,  with  the  usual  rectangu- 
lar lines  : however,  he  seems  to  take  as  much  pleasure  iu 
cutting  points  to  his  pencil,  which  is  of  the  best  English 
lead,  as  in  drawing  itself.  Thus  his  outlines  are  just  what 
oue  would  wish  them  to  be. 

Now  we  have  come  to  the  following  arrangement:  From 
tliis  da}'  forward,  we  are  to  live  aud  travel  together ; while 
he  is  to  have  nothing  to  trouble  himself  about  but  draw- 
ing, as  he  has  done  for  the  last  few  days. 

All  the  sketches  are  to  be  mine : but  iu  order  to  a fui-ther 
profit,  after  our  return  from  our  connection,  he  is  to  finish 
for  a certain  sum,  a number  of  them,  which  I am  to  select; 
and  then,  remuneration  for  the  others  is  to  be  settled  ac- 
cording to  his  skill,  the  importance  of  the  views  taken,  aud 
other  considerations.  This  arrangement  has  made  me  quite 
happy ; and  now  at  last  I can  give  you  an  account  of  our 
journey. 

Sitting  iu  a light  two-wheeled  carriage,  and  driving  iu 
turn,  with  a rough,  good-natured  boy  behind,  we  rolled 
through  the  glorious  country,  which  Kniep  greeted  with  a 
true  artistic  eye.  We  now  reached  the  mountain  stream, 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


2G5 


which,  running  along  a smooth,  artificial  channel,  skirts 
most  delightful  rocks  and  woods.  At  last,  in  the  district  of 
Alla  Cava,  Kniep  could  not  contain  himself,  but  set  to  work 
to  fix  on  paper  a splendid  mountain,  which  right  before  us 
stood  out  boldly  against  the  blue  sky ; and  with  a clever  and 
cliaracteristic  touch  drew  the  outlines  of  the  summit,  with 
the  sides  also,  down  to  its  very  base.  ^Ye  both  made  merry 
with  it,  as  the  earnest  of  our  contract. 

A similar  sketch  was  taken  in  the  evening,  from  the  win- 
dow, of  a singularly  lovely  and  rich  country,  which  passes 
all  my  powers  of  description.  Who  would  not  have  been 
disposed  to  study  at  such  a spot,  in  those  bright  times,  when 
a high  school  of  art  was  flourishing?  Very  early  in  the 
morning  we  set  off  by  an  untrodden  path,  coming  occasion- 
ally on  marshy  spots,  towards  two  beautifully  shaped  hills. 
We  crossed  brooks  and  pools,  where  the  wild  bulls,  like  hip- 
popotamuses, were  wallowing,  and  looking  upon  us  with  their 
wild,  red  eyes. 

The  country  grew  flatter,  and  more  desolate  : the  scarcity 
of  the  buildings  bespoke  a sparing  cultivation.  At  last, 
when  we  were  doubting  whether  we  were  passing  through 
rocks  or  ruins,  some  great  oblong  masses  enabled  us  to  dis- 
tinguish the  remains  of  temples,  and  other  monuments  of  a 
once  splendid  city.  Kniep,  who  had  already  sketched  on 
the  way  the  two  picturesque  limestone  hills,  suddenly  stopped 
to  And  a spot  from  which  to  seize  and  exhibit  the  peculiarity 
of  this  most  unpicturesque  country. 

A countryman,  whom  I took  for  my  guide,  led  me,  mean- 
while, through  the  buildings.  The  first  sight  of  them  excited 
nothing  but  astonishment.  I found  myself  in  a perfectly 
strange  world ; for,  as  centuries  pass  from  the  severe  to  the 
pleasing,  they  form  man’s  taste  at  the  same  time,  — indeed, 
create  him  after  the  same  law.  But  now  our  eyes,  and 
through  them  our  whole  inner  being,  have  been  used  to,  and 
decidedly  prepossessed  in  favor  of,  a lighter  style  of  archi- 
tecture ; so  that  these  crowded  masses  of  stumpy  conical 
pillars  appear  heavy,  not  to  say  frightful.  But  I soon  recol- 
lected myself,  called  to  mind  the  history  of  art,  thought  of 
the  times  when  the  spirit  of  the  age  was  in  unison  with  this 
style  of  architecture,  and  realized  the  severe  style  of  sculp- 
ture ; and  in  less  than  an  hour  found  mj'self  reconciled  to 
it,  — nay,  I went  so  far  as  to  thank  my  genius  for  permitting 
me  to  see,  with  my  own  eyes,  such  well-preserved  remains, 
since  drawings  give  us  no  true  idea  of  them  ; for  in  archi- 


266 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


tectural  sketches  they  seem  more  elegant,  and  in  perspec- 
tive views  even  more  stumpy,  than  they  actually  are.  It  is 
only  by  going  round  them,  and  passing  through  them,  that 
you  can  impart  to  them  their  real  character : you  evoke  for 
them,  not  to  say  infuse  into  them,  the  very  feeling  which  the 
architect  had  in  contemplation.  And  thus  I spent  the  whole 
day,  Kniep  the  while  working  away  most  diligently  in  taking 
very  accurate  sketches.  How  delighted  was  I to  be  exempt 
from  that  care,  and  yet  to  acquire  such  unfailing  tokens  for 
the  aid  of  memory  ! Unfortunately,  there  was  no  accom- 
modation for  spending  the  night  here.  We  returned  to 
Sorrento,  and  started  early  next  morning  for  Naples.  Vesu- 
vious,  seen  from  the  back,  is  a rich  counti-y  : poplars,  with 
their  colossal  pj'ramids,  on  the  road-side,  in  the  fore-ground. 
These,  too,  formed  an  agreeable  feature,  which  we  halted  a 
moment  to  take. 

We  now  reached  an  eminence.  The  most  extensive  area 
in  the  world  opened  before  us.  Naples,  in  all  its  splendor : 
its  mile-long  line  of  houses  on  the  flat  shore  of  the  bay  ; 
the  promontories,  tongues  of  land  and  walls  of  rock ; then 
the  islands  ; and,  behind  all,  the  sea ; — the  whole  was  a 
ravishing  sight ! 

A most  hideous  siuging,  or  rather  exulting  cry  and  howl 
of  joy,  from  the  boy  behind,  frightened  and  disturbed  us. 
Somewhat  angrily  I called  out  to  him  : he  had  ue%’er  had  any 
harsh  words  from  us,  — he  had  been  a very  good  boy. 

For  a Avhile  he  did  not  move  ; then  he  patted  me  lightly  on 
the  shoulder,  and  pushing  between  us  both  his  right  arm, 
with  the  fore-finger  stretched  out,  exclaimed.  “ Sigyior.  per- 
donate!  questa  e la  mia  patria!”  — which,  being  inter- 
preted, runs,  “ Forgive  me,  sir,  for  that  is  my  native  land ! ” 
And  so  I was  ravished  a second  time.  Something  like  a tear 
stood  in  the  eyes  of  the  phlegmatic  child  of  the  North. 

N.vples,  March  25,  1787. 

Although  I saw  that  Kniep  was  delighted  to  go  with  me 
to  the  Festival  of  the  Annunciation,  still  I could  uot  fail  to 
observe  that  there  was  something  he  was  sorry  to  part  from. 
His  candor  could  uot  let  him  conceal  from  me  long  the  fact, 
that  he  had  formed  here  a close  and  faithful  attachment.  It 
was  a pretty  tale  to  listen  to,  — the  story  of  their  first  meeting, 
and  the  description  of  the  fair  one’s  behavior  up  to  this  time, 
told  m her  favor.  Kniep,  moreover,  insisted  on  my  going 
and  seeing  for  myself  how  pretty  she  really  was.  Accord- 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


267 


I ingly?  an  opportunity  was  contrived,  and  so  as  to  afford  me 
li  the  enjoyment  of  one  the  most  agreeable  views  over  Naples. 

? He  took  me  to  the  flat  roof  of  a house  which  commanded  a 
I:  survey  of  the  lower  town,  near  the  Mole,  the  bay,  and  the 
j shore  of  Sorrento.  All  that  lay  beyond  on  the  left  became 
if  fore-shortened  in  the  strangest  way  possible  ; and  which, 
t;  except  from  this  particular  spot,  was  never  witnessed.  Na- 
ll pies  is  everywhere  beautiful  and  glorious. 

While  we  were  admiring  the  country,  suddenly  (although 
f expected)  a very  beautiful  face  presented  itself  above  the 
, I roof,  — for  the  entrance  to  these  flat  roofs  is  generally  an 
' j oblong  opening  in  the  roof,  which  can  be  covered,  w'heu  not 
used,  by  a trap-door.  While,  then,  the  little  angel  appeared, 
in  full  figure  above  the  opening,  it  occurred  to  me  that 
: i ancient  painters  usually  represent  the  Annunciation  by  mak- 
ing the  angel  ascend  by  a similar  trap-door.  But  the  angel 
I on  this  occasion  w'as  really  of  a very  fine  form,  of  a very 
pretty  face,  and  a good  natural  carriage.  It  was  a real  jo}" 
j to  me  to  see  my  new  friend  so  happy  beneath  this  magnifi- 
r cent  sky,  and  in  presence  of  the  finest  prospect  in  the  world. 

* After  her  departure,  he  confessed  to  me  that  he  had  hitherto 
I voluntarily  endured  poverty,  as  by  that  means  he  had  eu- 
) joyed  her  love  and,  at  the  same  time,  had  learned  to  appre- 
l ciate  her  contented  disposition  ; aud  now  his  better  prospects 
li  and  impi’oved  condition  were  chiefly  prized,  because  they 
I procured  him  the  means  for  making  her  days  more  comfort- 
. able. 

I 


j After  this  pleasant  little  incident  I walked  on  the  shore, 
|i  calm  aud  happy  There  a good  insight  into  botanical  mat- 
i ters  opened  on  me.  Tell  Herder  that  I am  very  near  finding 
j the  primal  vegetable  type ; only  I fear  that  no  one  will  be 
I able  to  trace  in  it  the  rest  of  the  vegetable  kingdom.  My 
" famous  theory  of  the  cotyledons  is  so  refined,  that  perhaps  it 
: is  impossible  to  go  farther  with  it. 


Naples,  March  26,  1787. 

To-mori’ow  this  letter  will  leave  this  for  you.  On  Thurs- 
day, the  29th,  I go  to  Palermo  in  the  corvette,  which  for- 
merly in  my  ignorance  of  sea  matters,  I promoted  to  the  rank 
of  a frigate.  The  doubt  whether  I should  go  or  remain  made 
me  unsettled  even  in  the  use  of  my  stay  here  : now  I have 
made  up  my  mind,  things  go  on  better.  For  my  mental  state 
this  journey  is  salutary,  — indeed,  necessary.  I see  Sicily 


268 


LETTERS  FROil  ITALY. 


pointing  to  Africa,  and  to  Asia,  and  to  the  wonderful, 
whither  so  many  rays  of  the  world’s  historj'  are  directed: 
even  to  stand  still  is  no  trifle  ! 

I have  treated  Naples  quite  in  its  own  style  : I have  been 
any  thing  but  industrious.  And  yet  I have  seen  a great  deal, 
and  formed  a pretty  general  idea  of  the  land,  its  inhabitants, 
and  condition.  On  my  return,  there  is  much  that  I shall  have 
to  go  over  again,  — indeed,  only  “ go  over,”  for  by  the  29th 
of  June  I must  be  in  Rome  again.  As  I have  missed  the 
Holy  Week,  I must  not  fail  to  be  present  at  the  festivities  of 
St.  Peter’s  Day.  My  Sicilian  expedition  must  not  altogether 
draw  me  off  from  my  original  plan. 

The  day  before  yesterday  we  had  a violent  storm,  with 
thunder,  lightning,  and  rain.  Now  it  is  clear  again : a glo- 
rious Tramontane  is  blowing  ; if  it  lasts  we  shall  have  a rapid 
passage. 

Yesterday  I went  with  my  fellow-traveller  to  see  the  vessel, 
and  to  take  our  cabin.  A sea-voyage  is  utterly  out  of  the 
pale  of  my  ideas : this  short  trip,  which  will  probably  be  a 
mere  sail  along  the  coast,  will  help  my  imagination,  and  en- 
large my  world.  The  captain  is  a young,  lively  fellow  ; the 
ship,  trim  and  clean,  built  in  America,  and  a good  sailer. 

Here  every  spot  begins  to  look  green  : Sicily,  they  tell  me, 
I shalLfind  still  more  so.  By  the  time  you  get  this  letter  I 
shall  be  on  my  return,  leaving  Trinacria  behind  me.  Such  is 
man  ; he  is  alwa}"s  either  anticipating  or  recalling  : I have 
not  yet  been  there ; and  yet  I now  am,  in  thought,  back 
again  with  you  ! However,  for  the  confusion  of  this  letter  I 
am  not  to  blame.  Every  moment  I am  interrupted  ; and  yet 
I would,  if  possible,  fill  this  sheet  to  the  very  corner. 

Just  now  I have  had  a visit  from  a Marchese  Berio,  a young 
man  who  appears  to  be  well  infonned.  He  was  anxious  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  the  author  of  “ Werther.”  Gen- 
erally, indeed,  the  people  here  evince  a great  desire  for,  and 
delight  in,  learning  and  accomplishments  ; only  they  are  too 
happy  to  go  the  right  way  to  acquire  them.  Had  I more 
time,  I would  willingly  devote  it  to  observing  the  Neapoli- 
tans. These  four  weeks  — what  are  they  compared  with  the 
endless  variety  of  life  ? 

Now,  farewell.  On  these  travels  I have  learnt  one  thing 
at  least,  — how  to  travel  well : whether  I am  learning  to  live 
I know  not.  The  men  who  pretend  to  understand  that  art, 
are,  in  nature  and  manner,  too  widely  different  from  me  for 
setting  up  any  claim  to  such  a talent. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


269 


Farewell,  and  love  me  as  sincerely  as  I from  my  heart  re- 
member you. 


Naples,  March  28,  1787. 

These  few  days  have  been  entirely  passed  in  packing  and 
leave-taking ; with  making  all  necessary  arrangements,  and 
paying  bills  ; looking  for  missing  articles  ; and  with  prepara- 
tions of  all  kinds.  I set  the  time  down  as  lost. 

The  Prince  of  Walbeck  has,  just  at  my  departure,  unset- 
tled me  again.  For  he  has  been  talking  of  nothing  less  than 
that  I should  arrange,  on  my  return,  to  go  with  him  to 
Greece  and  Dalmatia.  When  one  enters  once  into  the  world 
and  takes  up  with  it,  let  him  beware  lest  he  be  driven  aside, 
not  to  say  ch'iven  mad  by  it.  I am  utterly  incapable  of  add- 
ing another  syllable. 


Naples,  March  29, 1787. 

For  some  days  the  weather  has  been  very  unsettled.  To- 
day (the  appointed  time  for  our  sailing)  it  is  again  as  fine 
as  possible ; a favorable  north  wind ; a bright  sunny  sky, 
beneath  which  one  wishes  one’s  self  in  the  wide  world. 
Now  I bid  an  affectionate  farewell  to  all  my  friends  in  Wei- 
mar and  Gotha.  Your  love  accompanies  me,  for  wherever 
I am  I feel  my  need  of  you.  Last  night  I dreamt  I was 
again  among  old  familiar  faces.  It  seems  as  if  I could  not 
unload  my  boat  of  pheasants’  feathers  anywhere  but  among 
you.  May  it  be  well  loaded ! 


SICILY. 

Thursday,  March  29,  1787. 

A fresh  and  favorable  breeze  from  the  north-east  is  not 
blowing  this  time,  as  it  did  at  the  last  sailing  of  the  packet. 
But,  unfortunately,  a direct  head- wind  comes  from  the  oppo- 
site quarter,  the  south-west,  — and  so  we  are  experiencing  to 
our  cost  how  much  the  navigator  depends  upon  the  caprice  of 
the  wind  and  weather.  Out  of  all  patience,  we  whiled  away 
the  morning  either  on  the  shore  or  in  the  coffee-house  : at 
last,  at  noon  we  went  on  board  ; and,  the  weather  being  ex- 
tremely fine,  we  enjoyed  the  most  glorious  view.  The  cor- 
vette lay  at  anchor  near  to  the  Mole.  With  an  unclouded 


270 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


sun,  the  atmosphere  was  hazy  ; giving  to  the  rocky  walls  of 
Sorrento,  which  were  in  the  shade,  a tint  of  most  beautiful 
blue.  Naples,  with  its  living  multitudes,  lay  in  the  full  sun- 
shine, and  glittered  brilliantly  with  countless  tints.  It  was 
not  until  sunset  that  the  vessel  began  slowl}^  to  move  from 
her  moorings ; then  the  wind,  which  was  contraiy,  drove  us 
over  to  Posilippo  and  its  promontory.  All  night  long  the 
ship  went  quietly  on  its  way.  She  is  a swift  sailer,  was  built 
in  America,  and  is  well  fitted  with  cabins  and  berths.  The 
passengers  cheerful  but  not  boisterous,  — opera  singers  and 
dancers,  consigned  to  Palermo. 


Fkidat,  March  30,  1787. 

By  daybreak  we  found  ourselves  between  Ischia  and  Capri, 
— perhaps  not  more  than  a mile  from  the  latter.  The  sun 
rose  from  behind  the  mountains  of  Capri  and  Cape  Minerva. 
Kniep  diligently  sketched  the  outlines  of  the  coasts  and  the 
islands,  and  took  several  beautiful  views.  The  slowness  of 
the  passage  was  favorable  to  his  labors.  We  were  making 
our  way  but  slowly  under  a light  side-wind.  AYe  lost  sight 
of  Vesuvius  about  four,  just  as  we  came  m view  of  Cape 
Minerva  and  Ischia.  These,  too,  disappeared  about  even- 
ing. The  sun  set  in  the  sea,  attended  with  clouds  and  a 
long  streak  of  light  reaching  for  miles,  all  of  a brilliant  pur- 
ple. This  phenomenon  was  also  sketched  by  Kniep.  At 
last  we  lost  sight  altogether  of  the  land ; and  the  watery 
horizon  suiTounded  us,  the  night  being  clear,  with  lovely 
moonlight. 

These  beautiful  sights,  however,  I could  only  enjoy  for  a 
few  moments,  for  I was  soon  attacked  with  sea-sickness. 
I betook  myself  to  my  cabin,  chose  a horizontal  position, 
and  abstaining  from  all  meat  or  drink,  except  white  bread 
and  red  wine,  soon  found  myself  pretty  comfortable  again. 
Shut  out  from  the  external  world,  I let  the  internal  have  full 
sway  ; and,  as  a tedious  vot'age  was  to  be  anticipated,  I im- 
mediately set  myself  a heavy  task  in  order  to  while  away  the 
time  profitably.  Of  all  my  papers.  I had  only  brought  with 
me  the  first  two  acts  of  “Tasso,”  written  in  poetic  prose. 
These  two  acts,  as  regards  their  plan  and  evolution,  were 
nearly  similar  to  the  present  ones,  but.  written  full  ten  years 
ago,  had  a somewhat  soft  aud  misty  tone,  which  soon  disap- 
peared while,  in  accordance  with  my  later  notions.  I made 
form  more  predominant,  and  introduced  more  of  rhythm. 


LETTEKS  FROM  ITALY. 


271 


Saturday,  March  31,  1787. 

The  sun  rose  this  morning  from  the  water  quite  clear. 
About  seven  we  overtook  a French  vessel,  which  had  left 
Naples  two  days  before  us,  so  much  the  better  sailor  was 
our  vessel : still  we  had  no  prospect  as  yet  of  the  end  of  our 
passage.  We  were  somewhat  cheered  by  the  sight  of  Ustica, 
but,  unfortunately,  on  our  left,  when  we  ought  to  have  had 
it,  like  Capri,  on  our  right.  Towards  noon  the  wind  became 
directly  contraiy,  and  we  did  not  make  the  least  way.  The 
sea  began  to  get  rough,  and  every  one  in  the  ship  was  sick. 

I kept  in  my  usual  position  ; and  the  whole  play  was 
thought  over  and  over,  and  through  and  through  again.  The 
hours  passed  away  ; and  I should  not  have  noticed  how  they 
went,  but  for  the  roguish  Kniep,  on  whose  appetite  the  waves 
had  no  influence.  When,  from  time  to  time,  he  brought  me 
some  wine  and  some  bread,  he  took  a mischievous  delight  in 
expatiating  on  the  excellent  dinner  in  the  cabin,  the  cheer- 
fulness and  good  nature  of  our  young  but  clever  captain, 
and  on  his  regrets  that  I was  unable  to  enjoy  mj*  share  of  it. 
So,  likewise,  the  transition  from  joke  and  merriment  to 
qualmishness  and  sickness,  and  the  various  waj's  in  which 
the  latter  manifested  themselves  in  the  different  passengers, 
afforded  him  rich  materials  for  humorous  description. 

At  four  in  the  afternoon  the  captain  altered  the  course  of 
our  vessel.  The  mainsails  were  again  set ; and  we  steered 
direct  for  Ustica,  behind  which,  to  our  great  joy,  we  dis- 
cerned the  mountains  of  Sicily.  The  wind  improved  ; and  we 
bore  rapidly  towards  Sicily,  and  a few  little  islands  appeared 
in  view.  The  sunset  was  murky,  the  light  of  heaven  being 
veiled  beneath  a mist.  The  wind  was  pretty  fair  for  the 
whole  of  the  evening  : towards  midnight  the  sea  became  very 
rough. 

Sunday,  April  1,  1787. 

About  three  in  the  morning  a violent  storm.  Half  asleep 
and  dreaming,  I went  on  with  the  plan  of  my  drama.  In 
the  mean  time  there  was  great  commotion  on  deck  ; the  sails 
were  all  taken  in,  and  the  vessel  pitched  on  the  top  of  the 
waves.  As  day  broke,  the  storm  abated,  and  the  sky  cleared. 
Now  Ustica  lay  right  on  our  left.  They  pointed  out  to  me 
a large  turtle  swimming  a great  distance  off : by  my  tele- 
scope I could  easily  discern  it  as  a living  point.  Towards 
noon  we  were  clearly  able  to  distinguish  the  coast  of  Sicily, 
with  its  headlands  and  bays  ; but  we  had  got  very  far  to  the 


272 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


1 


leeward,  and  tacked  on  and  off.  Towards  mid-day  we  came 
nearer  to  the  shore.  The  weather  being  clear,  and  the  sun 
shining  bright,  we  saw  quite  distinctly  the  western  coast,  from 
the  promontory  of  Lilybaenm  to  Cape  Gallo. 

A shoal  of  dolphins  attended  our  ship  on  both  bows,  and 
continually  shot  ahead.  It  was  amusing  to  watch  them  as 
they  swam  along,  covered  by  the  clear,  transparent  waves  at 
one  time,  and  at  another  springing  above  the  water,  showing 
their  fins  and  spine-ridged  back,  with  their  sides  pla3’ing  in 
the  light,  from  gold  to  green,  and  from  green  to  gold. 

As  the  land  was  direct  on  our  lee,  the  captain  lay  to  in  a 
bay  behind  Cape  Gallo.  Kniep  failed  not  to  seize  the  oppor- 
tunity to  sketch  the  many  beautiful  scenes  somewhat  in  detail. 
Towards  sunset  the  captain  made  again  for  the  open  sea, 
steering  north-east,  in  order  to  make  the  heights  of  Palenno. 
I ventured  several  times  on  deck,  but  never  intennitted  for  a 
moment  my  poetical  labors ; and  thus  I became  pretty  well 
master  of  the  whole  pla}".  With  a cloud}'  sky,  a bright  but 
broken  moonlight,  the  reflection  on  the  sea  was  infinitely 
beautiful.  Painters,  in  order  to  heighten  the  effect,  generally 
lead  us  to  believe  that  the  reflection  of  the  heavenh-  lumi- 
naries on  the  water  has  its  greatest  breadth  nearest  to  the 
spectator,  where  it  also  possesses  its  greatest  brilliancy.  On 
this  occasion,  however,  the  reflection  was  broadest  at  the 
horizon,  and,  like  a sharp  pyramid,  ended  with  sparkling 
waves  close  to  the  ship.  During  the  night  our  captain  again 
frequently  changed  the  tack. 

Moxday,  April  2,  1787. 

This  moiTiing,  about  eight  o’clock,  we  found  ourselves 
over  against  Palermo.  The  moming  seemed  to  me  highly 
delightful.  During  the  days  that  I had  been  shut  up  in 
my  cabin,  I had  got  on  pretty  well  with  the  plan  of  my 
drama.  I felt  quite  well  now,  and  was  able  to  stay  on  deck, 
and  observe  attentively  the  Sicilian  coast.  Kniep  went  on 
sketching  awa}' ; and  bj'  his  accurate,  but  rapid  pencil,  many 
a sheet  of  paper  was  converted  into  highly  valuable  memen- 
tos of  our  landing,  for  which,  however,  we  had  still  to 
wait. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


273 


PALERMO. 

Monday,  April  2,  1787. 

By  three  o’clock  p.m.,  we  at  last,  after  much  trouble  and 
'difficulty,  got  iuto  harbor,  where  a most  glorious  view  lay 
'before  us.  Perfectly  recovered  from  m}-  sea-sickness,  I en- 
joyed it  highly.  The  town,  facing  north,  lay  at  the  foot  of 
a high  hill,  with  the  sun  (at  this  time  of  daj')  shining  above 
it.  The  sides  of  the  buildings  which  looked  towards  us  lay 
in  a deep  shade,  which,  however,  was  clear,  and  lit  up  by  the 
' reflection  from  the  water.  On  our  right  Monte  Pellegrino, 
with  its  many  elegant  outlines,  in  full  light ; ou  the  left  the 
coast,  with  its  bays,  isthmuses,  and  headlands,  stretching 
far  away  into  the  distance ; and  the  most  agreeable  effect 
was  produced  by  the  fresh  green  of  some  fine  trees,  whose 
crowns,  lit  up  from  behind,  swayed  from  side  to  side  before 
the  dark  buildings,  like  great  masses  of  glow-worms.  A 
brilliant  haze  gave  a blueish  tint  to  all  the  shades. 

Instead  of  hurrying  impatientl}^  on  shore,  we  remained  on 
deck  till  we-  were  actually  forced  to  laud  ; for  where  could 
we  hope  soon  to  find  a position  equal  to  this,  or  so  favora- 
ble a point  of  view  ? 

Through  the  singular  gateway,  — which  consists  of  two 
vast  pillars,  which  are  left  unconnected  above,  in  order  that 
the  towering  car  of  St.  Rosalie  may  be  able  to  pass  through, 
ou  her  famous  festival,  — we  were  driven  into  the  city,  and 
alighted  almost  immediatel}’  at  a large  hotel  on  our  left. 
The  host,  an  old,  decent  person,  long  accustomed  to  see 
strangers  of  every  nation  and  tongue,  conducted  us  into  a 
large  room,  the  balcony  of  which  commanded  a view  of  the 
sea,  with  the  roadstead,  where  we  recognized  our  ship, 
Monte  Rosalie,  and  the  beach,  and  were  enabled  to  form 
an  idea  of  our  whereabouts.  Highly  satisfied  with  the  posi- 
tion of  our  room,  we  did  not  for  some  time  observe,  that  at 
the  farther  end  of  it  was  an  alcove,  slightly  raised,  and  con- 
cealed by  curtains,  in  which  was  a most  spacious  bed,  with 
a magnificent  canopy  and  curtains  of  silk,  in  perfect  keeping 
with  the  other  stately,  but  old-fashioned  furniture  of  our 
apartment.  This  display  of  splendor  made  me  uneasy  ; so, 
as  my  custom  was,  I wished  to  make  an  agreement  with  my 
host.  To  this  the  old  man  replied,  that  conditions  were  un- 
necessary, and  he  trusted  I should  have  nothing  to  complain 
of  in  him.  We  were  also  at  liberty  to  make  use  of  the  ante- 


274 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


room,  which  was  next  to  onr  apartment,  and  cool,  airy,  and 
agreeable  from  its  many  balconies. 

We  amused  ourselves  with  the  endless  variety  of  views, 
and  endeavored  to  sketch  them,  one  by  one,  in  pencil  or  in 
colors  ; for  here  the  eye  fell  upon  a plentiful  haiwest  for  the 
artist. 

In  the  evening  the  lovely  moonlight  attracted  us  once 
more  to  the  roadstead,  and  even  after  our  return  riveted  us 
for  some  time  on  the  balcony.  The  light  was  peculiar,  the 
repose  and  loveliness  of  the  scene  were  extreme. 

Paleemo, 

Tuesday,  April  3,  1787. 

Our  first  business  was  to  examine  the  city,  which  is  easy 
enough  to  survey,  but  difficult  to  know ; easy,  because  a 
street  a mile  long  from  the  lower  to  the  upper  gate,  from 
the  sea  to  the  mouutaiu,  intersects  it,  and  is  itself  again 
crossed,  nearly  in  its  middle,  by  another.  Whatever  lies  on 
these  two  great  lines  is  easily  found  ; but  in  the  inner  streets 
a stranger  soon  loses  himself,  and,  without  a guide,  will  never 
extricate  himself  from  their  labyrinths. 

Towards  evening  our  attention  was  directed  to  the  long 
line  of  carriages  (of  the  well-known  build)  in  which  the 
principal  persons  of  the  neighborhood  were  taking  their 
evening  drive  from  the  city  to  the  beach,  for  the  sake  of  the 
fresh  air,  amusement,  and  perhaps  also  for  intrigue. 

It  was  full  moon  about  two  hours  before  midnight,  and 
the  evening  was  in  consequence  indescribably  glorious.  The 
northerly  position  of  Palermo  produces  a very  strange  effect : 
as  the  city  and  shore  come  between  the  sun  and  the  harbor, 
its  refiectiou  is  never  observed  on  the  waves.  On  this 
account,  though  this  was  oue  of  the  brightest  days,  I found 
the  sea  of  a deep  blue  color,  solemn,  and  oppressive; 
whereas,  at  Naples,  from  the  time  of  noon  it  gets  brighter 
and  brighter,  and  glitters  with  more  airy  lightness  and  to  a 
greater  distance. 

Kniep  has  to-daj’  left  me  to  make  my  pilgrimages  and 
observations  by  myself,  in  order  that  he  might  accurately 
sketch  the  outline  of  Monte  Pellegrino,  the  most  beautiful 
headland  in  the  whole  world. 

Here,  again,  I must  put  a few  things  together,  something 
in  the  way  of  an  appendix,  and  with  the  carelessness  of 
familiarity. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


275 


At  sunset  of  the  29th  of  March  we  left  ISTaples,  and 
after  only  a passage  of  four  days  and  three  hours  cast 
anchor  in  the  harbor  of  Palermo.  The  little  diary  which  I 
enclose  will  give  an  account  of  ourselves  and  our  fortunes. 
I never  entered  on  a journey  so  calmly  as  on  this,  and  have 
never  had  a more  quiet  time  of  it  than  during  our  passage, 
which  a constant  headwind  has  unusually  prolonged,  even 
though  I passed  the  time  chiefly  on  my  bed,  in  a close  little 
berth,  to  which  I was  obliged  to  keep  during  the  first  da}’,  in 
consequence  of  a violent  attack  of  sea-sickness.  Now  my 
thoughts  pass  over  towards  you ; for  if  ever  any  thing  has 
exercised  a decided  influence  on  my  mind,  this  voyage  has 
certainly  done  so. 

He  who  has  never  seen  himself  surrounded  on  all  sides  by 
the  sea,  can  never  possess  an  idea  of  the  world  and  of  his 
own  relation  to  it.  As  a landscape-painter,  I have  received 
entirely  new  ideas  from  this  great  simple  line. 

During  our  voyage  we  had,  as  the  diary  records,  many 
changes,  and,  on  a small  scale  experienced  all  a sailor’s 
fortunes.  However,  the  safety  and  convenience  of  the 
packet-boat  cannot  be  sufficiently  commended.  Our  captain 
is  a very  brave  and  an  extremely  handsome  man.  My 
fellow-passengers  consisted  of  a whole  theatrical  troop,  well 
mannered,  tolerable,  and  agreeable.  My  artist,  who  accom- 
panies me,  is  a merry,  true-hearted  fellow.  In  order  to 
shorten  the  weary  hours  of  the  passage,  he  has  explained  to 
me  all  the  mechanical  part  of  aquarell,  or  painting  in  water- 
colors,  an  art  w’hich  has  been  carried  to  a great  height  of 
perfection  in  Italy.  He  thoroughly  understands  the  use  of 
particular  colors  for  effecting  certain  tones,  to  produce 
which,  without  knowing  the  secret,  one  might  go  on  mixing 
forever.  I had,  it  is  true,  learned  a good  deal  of  it  in 
Rome,  but  never  before  so  systematically.  The  artists  must 
have  studied  and  perfected  the  art  in  a country  like  Italy  or 
this.  No  words  can  express  the  hazy  brilliancy  which 
hung  around  the  coasts,  as  on  a most  beautiful  noon  we 
neared  Palermo.  He  who  has  once  seen  it  will  never  forget 
it.  Now,  at  last,  I can  understand  Claude  Lorraine,  and  can 
cherish  a hope  that  hereafter,  in  the  North,  I shall  be  able  to 
produce,  from  my  soul,  at  least  a faint  idea  of  these  glorious 
abodes.  Oh  that  only  all  littleness  had  departed  from  it  as 
entirely  as  the  little  charm  of  thatched  roofs  has  vanished 
from  among  my  ideas  of  what  a drawing  should  be ! We 
shall  see  what  this  “ Queen  of  Islands  ” can  do. 


276 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


No  words  can  express  the  welcome  — with  its  fresh  green 
mulberry  trees,  evergreen  oleanders,  and  hedges  of  citron, 
etc.  In  the  open  gardens,  you  see  large  beds  of  ranuncu- 
luses and  anemones.  The  air  is  mild,  warm,  and  fragrant ; 
the  wind  refreshing.  The  full  moon,  too,  rose  from  behind 
a promontory,  and  shone  upon  the  sea ; and  this  joyous 
scene  after  being  tossed  about  fom'  days  and  nights  on  the 
waves  ! 

Forgive  me  if,  with  the  stump  of  a pen,  and  the  Indian- 
ink  my  fellow-traveller  uses  for  his  sketches,  I scribble 
down  these  remarks.  1 send  them  to  you  as  a faint  lisping 
murmur  ; since  I am  preparing  for  all  that  love  me  another 
record  of  these,  my  happy  hours.  MTiat  it  is  to  be  I say 
not ; and  when  you  wiU  receive  it,  that  also  it  is  out  of  my 
power  to  tell. 

This  letter  must,  as  far  as  possible,  impart  to  you,  my 
dearest  friends,  a high  treat : it  is  intended  to  convey  to  you 
a description  of  an  unrivalled  bay,  embracing  a vast  mass 
of  waters.  Beginning  from  the  east,  where  a flattish  head- 
land runs  far  out  into  the  sea,  it  is  dotted  with  many  rugged, 
beautifully  shaped,  wood-crowned  rocks,  until  it  reaches  the 
fishing-huts  of  the  suburbs ; then  the  town  itself,  the  fore- 
most houses  of  which  (and  among  them  our  own  hotel)  all 
look  towards  the  harbor  and  the  great  gate  by  which  we 
entered. 

Then  it  stretches  westward,  and  passing  the  usual  land- 
ing-place, where  vessels  of  smaller  burden  can  touch,  comes 
next  to  what  is  properly  the  harbor,  near  the  IMole,  which  is 
the  station  of  all  larger  vessels ; and  then,  at  the  western 
point,  to  protect  the  shipping,  rises  Monte  Pellegrino,  with 
its  beautiful  contour,  after  leaving  between  it  and  the  main- 
land a lovely  fertile  valley,  which  at  its  other  end  again 
reaches  the  sea. 

Kniep  sketched  away.  I took,  with  my  mind’s  eye.  the 
plan  of  the  country  (ich  schematisirte) . with  great  delight; 
and  now,  glad  to  have  reached  home  again,  we  feel  neither 
strength  nor  energy  to  tell  a long  story,  and  to  go  into 
particulars.  Our  endeavors  must,  therefore,  be  reseiwed 
for  a future  occasion  ; and  this  sheet  must  serve  to  convince 
you  of  our  iuabilit}"  adequately  to  seize  these  objects,  or 
rather  of  our  presumption  in  thinking  to  grasp  and  master 
them  in  so  short  a time. 


LETTERS  EROM  ITALY. 


277 


Palermo, 

■\Tednesday,  April  4,  1787. 

In  the  afternoon  we  paid  a visit  to  the  fertile  and  delight- 
ful valley  at  the  foot  of  the  Southern  Mountains,  running 
by  Palermo,  and  through  which  the  Oreto  meanders.  Here, 
too,  is  a call  for  the  painter’s  eye,  and  a practised  hand  to 
convey  an  idea  of  it.  Kniep,  however,  hastily  siezed  an 
excellent  point  of  view,  at  a spot  where  the  pent-up  water 
was  clashing  down  from  a half-broken  weir,  and  was  shaded 
by  a lovely  group  of  trees,  behind  which  an  uninterrupted 
prospect  opened  up  the  valley,  affording  a view  of  several 
farm  buildings. 

Beautiful  spring  weather,  and  a budding  luxuriance,  dif- 
fused over  the  whole  valley  a refreshing  feeling  of  peace, 
which  our  stupid  guide  marred  by  his  ill-timed  erudition ; 
telling  us  that  in  former  days  Hannibal  had  fought  a battle 
here,  and  circumstantially  detailing  all  the  dreadful  feats  of 
war  which  had  been  perpetrated  on  the  spot.  In  no  friendly 
mood  I reproved  him  for  thus  fatally  calling  up  again  such 
departed  spectres.  It  was  bad  enough,  I said,  that  from 
time  to  time  the  crops  should  be  trodden  down,  if  not  by 
elephants,  yet  by  men  and  horses.  At  any  rate,  it  was  not 
right  to  scare  away  the  peaceful  dreams  of  imagination  by 
reviving  such  tumults  and  horrors. 

The  guide  was  greatly  surprised  that  I could,  on  such  a 
spot,  despise  classical  reminiscences  ; nor  could  I make  him 
understand  how  greatly  such  a mingling  of  the  past  with  the 
present  displeased  me. 

Still  more  singular  did  our  guidfe  deem  me,  when  at  all 
the  shallow  places,  of  which  a great  many  are  left  dry  by 
the  stream,  I searched  for  pebbles,  and  carried  off  with  me 
specimens  of  each  sort.  I again  found  it  diflicult  to  make 
him  understand  that  there  was  no  readier  way  of  forming  an 
idea  of  a mountainous  district  like  that  before  us,  than  by 
examining  the  nature  of  the  stones  which  are  washed  down 
by  the  streams  ; and  that  in  so  doing,  the  purpose  was  to 
acquire  a right  notion  of  those  eternally  classic  heights  of 
the  ancient  world. 

And,  indeed,  my  gains  from  this  stream  were  large 
enough ; I carried  away  nearly  forty  specimens,  which,  how- 
ever, may  be  comprised  under  a few  classes.  Most  of  these 
were  of  a species  of  rock,  which,  in  one  respect,  might  be 
regarded  as  a sort  of  jasper  or  hornblende  ; in  another, 
looked  like  clay-slate.  I found  some  pebbles  rounded,  others 


278 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


of  a rh  nboidal  shape,  others  of  irregular  forms  and  of 
various  colors  : moreover,  many  varieties  of  the  pjrimeval 
limestone  ; not  a few  specimens  of  breccia,  of  which  the  sub- 
stratum was  lime,  and  holding  jasper  or  modifications  of 
limestone  ; rubbles  of  muschelkalk  were  not  wanting  either. 

The  horses  here  are  fed  on  barley,  cut  straw  {hadcerlhig) , 
and  clover.  In  spring  they  give  them  the  green  barley,  in 
order  to  refresh  them, — per  rmfrescar  is  the  phrase.  As 
there  are  no  meadows  here,  they  have  no  ha}-.  On  the  hill- 
sides there  are  some  pasture-lands  ; and  also  in  the  corn- 
fields, as  a third  is  always  left  fallow.  They  keep  but  few 
sheep,  and  these  are  of  a breed  from  Barbary.  On  the 
whole,  they  have  more  mules  than  horses,  because  the  hot 
food  suits  the  former  better  than  the  latter. 

The  plain  on  which  Palermo  is  situated,  as  well  as  the  dis- 
tricts of  Ai  Colli,  which  lie  without  the  city,  and  a part  also 
of  Baggaria,  have  for  their  basis  the  muschelkalk,  of  which 
the  city  is  built.  There  are,  for  this  purpose,  extensive 
quarries  of  it  in  the  neighborhood.  In  one  place,  near 
Monte  Pellegrino,  they  are  more  than  fifty  feet  deep.  The 
lower  layers  are  of  a whiter  hue.  In  it  are  found  many  pet-  j 
rified  corals  and  other  shell-fish,  but  principally  great  seal-  ! 
lops.  The  upper  stratum  is  mixed  with  red  marl,  and  con- 
tains but  few,  if  any,  fossils.  Right  above  it  lies  the  red  , 
marl,'  of  which,  however,  the  layer  is  not  very  stiff. 

Monte  Pellegrino,  however,  rises  out  of  all  this.  It  is  a 
primary  limestone,  has  many  hollows  and  fissures,  which, 
although  very  irregular,  when  closely  observed  are  found  to 
follow  the  order  of  the  strata.  The  stone  is  close,  and  rings 
when  struck. 

Palermo, 

Thursday,  April  5,  1787. 

We  have  gone  carefully  through  the  city.  The  style  of 
architecture  resembles  for  the  most  part  that  of  Naples  : but 
the  public  buildings,  for  instance  the  fountains,  are  still  fur- 
ther removed  from  good  taste.  Here  there  is  no  artistic 
mind  to  regulate  the  public  works : the  edifices  owe  both 
their  shape  and  existence  to  chance.  A fountain,  which  is 
the  admiration  of  the  whole  island,  would,  perhaps,  never 
have  existed,  had  not  Sicily  furnished  a beautiful  variegated 
marble,  and  had  not  a sculptor  well  practised  in  animal 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


279 


shapes  happened  to  be  in  favor  precisely  at  the  time.  It 
would  be  a difficult  matter  to  describe  this  fountain.  In  a 
moderately  sized  site  stands  a round  piece  of  masonry,  not 
quite  a staff  high  {Stock  hock) . The  socle,  the  wall,  and 
the  cornice  are  of  variegated  marble.  In  the  wall  are  several 
niches  in  a row,  from  which  animals  of  all  kinds,  in  white 
marble,  are  looking  with  stretched-out  necks.  Horses,  lions, 
camels,  and  elephants,  are  interchanged  one  with  another ; 
and  one  scarcely  expects  to  find,  within  the  circle  of  this 
menagerie,  a fountain,  to  which,  through  four  openings, 
marble  steps  lead  you  down  to  draw  from  the  water,  which 
flows  in  abundance. 

The  same  nearly  may  be  said  of  the  churches,  in  which 
even  the  Jesuits’  love  of  show  and  finery  is  surpassed,  but 
not  from  design  or  plan,  but  by  accident,  — just  as  artist 
after  artist,  whether  sculptor,  carver,  gilder,  lackerer,  or 
worker  in  mai’ble,  chose,  without  taste  or  rule,  to  display  on 
each  vacant  spot  their  several  abilities. 

Amidst  all  this,  however,  one  cannot  fail  to  recognize  a 
certain  talent  in  imitating  natural  objects  : for  instance,  the 
heads  of  the  animals  around  the  fountains  are  very  well  exe- 
cuted. By  this  means  it  is,  in  truth,  that  the  admiration  of 
the  multitude  is  excited,  whose  artistic  gratification  consists 
chiefly  in  comparing  the  imitation  with  its  living  prototype. 

Towards  evening  I nrade  a merry  acquaintance,  as  I en- 
tered the  house  of  a small  dealer  in  the  Long  Street,  in  order 
to  purchase  some  trifles.  As  I stood  before  the  window 
to  look  at  the  wares,  a slight  breeze  ‘arose,  which  eddying 
along  the  whole  street,  at  last  distributed  through  all  the 
windows  and  doors  the  immense  cloud  of  dust  which  it  had 
raised.  “By  all  the  saints,”  I cried,  “-whence  comes  all  the 
dust  of  your  town?  is  there  no  helping  it?  In  its  length 
and  beauty,  this  street  vies  with  any  in  the  Corso  in  Rome. 
On  both  sides  a fine  pavement,  which  each  stall  and  shop 
holder  keeps  clean  by  interminable  sweeping,  but  brushes 
every  thing  into  the  middle  of  the  street,  which  is,  in  conse- 
quence, so  much  the  dirtier,  and  with  every  breath  of  wind 
sends  back  to  you  the  filth  which  has  just  before  been  swept 
into  the  roadwaju  In  Naples  busy  donkeys  carry  off,  day  by 
day,  the  rubbish  to  the  gardens  and  farms.  Why  should  you 
not  here  contrive  and  establish  some  similar  regulation?  ” 

“ Things  with  us  are  as  they  are,”  he  replied : “ we  throw 
evei'y  thing  out  of  the  house,  and  it  rots  before  the  door. 
You  see  here  horse-dung  and  filth  of  all  kinds ; it  lies  there 


280 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


and  dries,  and  returns  to  us  again  in  tire  shape  of  dust. 
Against  it  we  are  taking  precautions  all  day  long.  But  look, 
our  pretty  little  and  ever  busy  brooms,  worn  out  at  last,  only 
go  to  increase  the  heap  of  filth  before  our  doors.” 

And  oddly  enough  it  was  actually  so.  They  had  nothing 
but  very  little  besoms  of  palm-branches,  which,  slightly 
altered,  might  have  been  really  useful ; but  as  it  was,  they 
broke  off  easily,  and  the  stumps  were  lying  by  thousands  in 
the  streets.  To  my  repeated  questioning,  whether  there  was 
no  board  or  regulations  to  prevent  all  this,  he  replied.  “A 
story  is  current  among  the  people,  that  those  whose  duty  it 
was  to  i^rovide  for  the  cleansing  of  our  streets,  being  men  of 
great  power  and  influence,  could  not  be  compelled  to  disburse 
the  moue}'  on  its  lawful  objects.”  And,  besides  that,  there 
was  also  the  strange  fact  that  certain  parties  feared  that  if 
the  dirty  straw  and  dung  were  swept  away,  every  one  would 
see  how  badly  the  pavement  beneath  was  laid  down  ; and  so 
the  dishonesty  of  a second  body  would  be  thereby  exposed. 
“ All  this,  however,”  he  remarked,  with  a most  humorous 
expression,  “is  merely  the  interpretation  which  the  ill-dis- 
posed put  upon  it.”  For  his  part,  he  was  of  the  opinion  of 
those  who  maintained  that  the  nobles  preserved  this  soft  lit- 
ter for  their  carriages,  in  order  that,  when  they  take  their 
drive  for  amusement  in  the  evening,  the}'  might  ride  at  ease 
over  the  elastic  ground.  And  as  the  man  was  now  in  the 
humor,  he  joked  away  at  many  of  the  abuses  of  the  police. 
— a consolatory  proof  to  me  that  man  has  always  humor 
enough  to  make  merry  with  what  he  cannot  help. 

St.  Rosalie,  the  patron  saint  of  Palermo,  is  so  universally 
known,  from  the  description  which  Brydone  has  given  of  her 
festival,  that  it  must  assuredly  be  agreeable  to  my  friends  to 
read  some  account  of  the  place  and  the  spot  where  she  is 
most  particularly  worshipped. 

Monte  Pellegrino,  a vast  mass  of  rocks,  of  which  the 
breadth  is  greater  than  the  height,  lies  on  the  north-west  ex- 
tremity of  the  Bay  of  Palermo.  Its  beautiful  form  admits 
not  of  being  described  by  words  : a most  excellent  view  of  it 
may  be  seen  in  the  Voyage  Pittoresque  de  la  Sidle.  It  con- 
sists of  a gray  limestone  of  the  earlier  epoch.  The  rocks  are 
quite  barren  ; not  a tree  nor  a bush  will  grow  on  them  : even 
the  more  smooth  and  level  portions  are  but  barely  covered 
with  grasses  or  mosses. 

In  a cavern  of  this  mountain,  the  bones  of  the  saint  were 
discovered,  at  the  beginning  of  the  last  century,  and  brought 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


281 


to  Piilermo.  The  presence  of  them  deliyered  the  city  from  a 
pestilence,  and  ever  since  S.  Rosalie  has  been  the  patron 
saint  of  the  people.  Chapels  have  been  built  in  her  honor, 
splendid  festivals  have  been  instituted. 

The  pious  and  devout  frequently  made  pilgrimages  to  the 
mountain  ; and,  in  consequence,  a road  has  been  made  to  it, 
which,  like  an  ancient  aqueduct,  rests  on  arches  and  columns, 
and  ascends  zigzag  between  the  rocks. 

The  place  of  worship  is  far  more  suitable  to  the  humility 
of  the  saint  who  retired  thither,  than  are  the  splendid  festivi- 
ties which  have  been  instituted  in  honor  of  her  total  renun- 
ciation of  the  w’orld.  And  perhaps  the  whole  of  Christen- 
dom, which  now,  for  eighteen  hundred  years,  has  based  its 
riches,  pomps,  and  festival  amusements,  on  the  memory  of 
its  first  founders  and  most  zealous  confessors,  cannot  point 
out  a holy  spot  which  has  been  adorned  and  rendered  vener- 
able in  so  eminent  and  delightful  a way. 

When  you  have  ascended  the  mountain,  you  proceed  to  the 
corner  of  a rock,  over  against  which  there  rises  a high  wall 
of  stone.  On  this  the  church  and  the  monastery  are  very 
finely  situated. 

The  exterior  of  the  church  has  nothing  promising  or  in- 
viting. You  open  its  door  without  any  high  expectation,  but 
on  entering  are  ravished  with  wonder.  Y^ou  find  yourself 
in  a vast  vestibule,  which  extends  to  the  whole  width  of 
the  church,  and  is  open  towards  the  nave.  Y’ou  see  here  the 
usual  vessel  of  holy  water  and  some  confessionals.  The  nave 
is  an  open  space,  which  on  the  right  is  bounded  by  the 
native  rock,  and  on  the  left  by  the  continuation  of  the  vesti- 
bule. It  is  paved  with  flat  stones  on  a slight  inclination,  in 
order  that  the  rain-water  may  run  off.  A small  well  stands 
nearly  in  the  centre. 

The  cave  itself  has  been  transformed  into  the  choir,  with- 
out, however,  any  of  its  rough  natural  shape  being  altered. 
Ascending  a few  steps,  close  upon  them  stands  the  choris- 
ters’ desk  with  the  choir-books,  and  on  each  side  are  the 
seats  of  the  choristers.  The  whole  is  lighted  by  the  day- 
light, which  is  admitted  from  the  court  or  nave.  Deep 
within,  in  the  dark  recesses  of  the  cave,  stands  the  high- 
altar. 

As  already  stated,  no  change  has  been  made  in  the  cave : 
only,  as  the  rocks  drip  incessantly  with  water,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  keep  the  place  dry.  This  has  been  effected  by  means 
of  tin  tubes,  which  are  fastened  to  every  projection  of  the 


282 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


rock,  and  in  various  ways  connected  with  each  other.  As 
they  are  broad  above,  and  come  to  a narrow  edge  below,  and 
are,  moreover,  painted  of  a dull  green  color,  they  give  to 
the  rock  an  appearance  of  being  overgrown  with  a species 
of  cactus.  The  water  is  conducted  into  a clear  reservok, 
out  of  which  it  is  taken  by  the  faithful  as  a remedy  and 
preventative  for  every  kind  of  ill. 

As  I was  narrowly  observing  all  this,  an  ecclesiastic  came 
up  to  me  and  asked  whether  I was  a Genoese,  and  wished 
to  have  a few  masses  said.  I replied  upon  this  that  I had 
come  to  Palermo  with  a Genoese,  who  would  to-morrow,  as 
it  was  a festival,  come  up  to  tlie  shrine  ; but,  as  one  of  us 
must  always  be  at  home,  I had  come  up  to-daj’  in  order  to 
look  about  me.  Upon  this  he  observed,  I was  at  perfect 
liberty  to  look  at  every  thing  at  my  leisure,  and  to  perform 
my  devotions.  In  particular  he  pointed  out  to  me  a little 
altar,  which  stood  on  the  left,  as  especially  holy,  and  then 
left  me. 

Through  the  openings  of  a large  trelliss-work  of  lattice, 
lamps  appeared  burning  before  an  altar.  I knelt  down  close 
to  the  gratings  and  peeped  through.  Farther  in,  however, 
another  lattice  of  brass  wire  was  drawn  across  : so  that  one 
looked,  as  it  were,  through  gauze  at  the  objects  within.  By 
the  light  of  some  dull  lamps,  I caught  sight  of  a lovely 
female  form. 

!She  lay  seemingly  in  a state  of  ecstasy,  — the  eyes  half- 
closed,  the  head  leaning  carelessly  on  the  right  hand,  which 
wa^s  adorned  with  many  rings.  I could  not  sufficiently  dis- 
cern her  face,  but  it  seemed  to  be  peculiarly  charming.  Her 
robe  was  made  of  gilded  metal,  which  imitated  excellently  a 
texture  wrought  with  gold.  The  head  and  hands  were  of 
white  marble.  I cannot  say  that  the  whole  was  in  the  lofty 
style,  still  it  was  executed  so  naturally  and  so  pleasingly 
that  one  almost  fancied  it  must  breathe  and  move.  A little 
angel  stands  near  her,  and  with  a bunch  of  liUes  in  his  hand 
appears  to  be  fanning  her. 

Meanwhile,  the  clergy  had  come  into  the  cave,  taken  their 
places,  and  began  to  chant  the  Vespers. 

I took  my  seat  right  before  the  altar,  and  listened  to  them 
for  a while  : then  I again  approached  the  altar,  knelt  down, 
and  attempted  to  obtain  a still  more  distinct  view  of  the 
beautiful  image.  I resigned  myself  without  reserve  to  the 
charming  illusion  of  the  statue  and  the  locality. 

The  chant  of  the  priests  now  resounded  through  the  cave ; 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


283 


the  water  was  trickling  into  the  reservoir  near  the  altar ; 
while  the  over-hanging  rocks  of  the  vestibule  — the  proper 
nave  of  the  church  — shut  in  the  scene.  There  was  a deep 
stillness  in  this  waste  spot,  whose  inhabitants  seemed  to  be 
all  dead,  — a singular  neatness  in  a wild  cave.  The  tinsel  and 
tawdry  pomp  of  the  Roman-Catholic  ceremonial,  especially 
as  it  is  ^’ividly  decked  out  in  Sicily,  had  here  reverted  to  its 
original  simplicity.  The  illusion  produced  by  the  statue  of 
the  fair  sleeper,  which  had  a charm  even  for  the  most 
practised  eye  — in  short,  it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty 
that  I tore  myself  from  the  spot,  and  it  was  late  at  night 
before  I got  back  to  Palermo. 


PALER3rO, 

Saturday,  April  7, 1787. 

In  the  public  gardens,  which  are  close  to  the  roadstead,  I 
have  passed  some  most  delightful  hours.  It  is  the  most 
wonderful  place  in  the  world  : regularly  laid  out  by  art,  it 
still  looks  a fairy  spot ; planted  but  a short  time  ago,  it  yet 
transports  j'ou  into  ancient  times.  Green  edgings  surround 
beds  of  the  choicest  exotics  ; citron-espaliers  arch  over  low- 
arbored  walks  ; high  walls  of  the  oleander,  decked  with 
thousands  of  its  red  carnation-like  blossoms,  dazzle  the  eye  ; 
trees,  wholly  strange  and  unknown  to  me,  as  yet  without 
leaf,  and  probably,  therefore,  natives  of  a still  warmer  cli- 
mate, spread  out  their  strange-looking  branches.  A raised 
seat  at  the  end  of  the  level  space  gives  you  a survey  of 
these  curiously  mixed  rarities,  and  leads  the  eye  at  last  to 
great  basins  in  which  gold  and  silver  fish  swim  about  with 
their  pretty  movements,  — now  hiding  themselves  beneath 
moss-covered  reeds,  now  darting  in  troops  to  catch  the  bit 
of  bread  which  has  tempted  them  from  their  hiding-place. 
All  the  plants  exhibit  tints  of  green  such  as  we  are  not  used  to, 
— yellower  and  bluer  than  are  found  with  us.  What,  how- 
ever, lent  to  every  object  the  rarest  charm  was  a strong  halo 
which  hung  around  every  thing  alike,  and  produced  the  fol- 
lowing singular  effect : objects  which  were  only  distant  a 
few  steps  from  others,  were  distinguished  from  them  by  a 
decided  tint  of  light  bine,  so  that  at  last  the  distinctive 
colors  of  the  most  remote  were  almost  merged  in  it,  or  at 
least  assumed  to  the  eye  a decidedly  strong  blue  tint. 

The  very  singular  effect  which  such  a halo  imparts  to  dis- 
tinct objects,  vessels,  and  headlands,  is  remarkable  enough 
to  an  artistic  eye  : it  assists  it  accurately  to  distinguish  and, 


284 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


indeed,  to  measure  distances.  It  makes,  too,  a walk  on  the 
heights  extremely  charming.  One  no  longer  sees  Nature, 
nothing  but  pictures  ; just  as  if  a painter  of  exquisite  taste 
had  arranged  them  in  a gallery. 

But  these  wonderful  gardens  have  made  a deep  and  lasting 
impression  on  my  mind.  The  black  waves  on  the  northern 
horizon,  as  they  broke  on  the  irregular  points  of  the  bay, — 
and  even  the  smell  of  the  sea,  — all  seemed  to  recall  to  mv 
imagination,  as  well  as  to  m3’  memory,  the  happy  island  of 
the  Phseacians.  I hastened  to  purchase  a ‘-Homer,”  and 
began  to  read  this  book  with  the  highest  delight,  making  an 
impromptu  translation  of  it  for  the  benefit  of  Kniep,  who 
had  well  deserved  by  his  diligent  exertions  this  day  some 
agreeable  refreshment  over  a glass  of  wiue. 

P.VLERMO,  April  8,  1787. 

(Easter  Day.) 

The  morning  rejoicings  in  the  blissful  Resurrectiou  of  the 
Lord  commenced  with  break  of  day.  Crackers,  wild-fires, 
rockets,  serpents,  etc.,  were  let  off  by  wholesale  in  front  of 
the  churches,  as  the  worshippers  crowded  in  at  the  open 
doors.  The  chiming  of  bells,  the  pealing  of  organs,  the 
chanting  of  processions,  and  of  the  choirs  of  priests  who 
came  to  meet  them,  were  enough  to  stun  the  ears  of  all 
who  had  not  been  used  to  such  uoisy  worship. 

The  earl}'  mass  was  scarcely  ended,  when  two  well-dressed 
couriers  of  the  viceroy  visited  our  hotel,  with  the  double 
object  of  offering  to  all  strangers  his  highness’s  congratu- 
lations on  the  festival,  and  to  exact  a douceur  in  return. 
As  I was  specially  honored  with  an  invitation  to  dinner,  my 
gift  was,  of  course,  expected  to  be  considerable. 

After  spending  the  morning  in  visiting  the  diflereut 
churches,  I proceeded  to  the  viceroy’s  palace,  which  is  situ- 
ated at  the  upper  end  of  the  city.  As  I arrived  rather 
early,  I found  the  great  hall  still  empty : there  was  ouh’  a 
little,  lively  man,  who  came  up  to  me,  and  whom  I soon 
discovered  to  be  a Maltese. 

When  he  had  learned  that  I was  a German,  he  asked  if  I 
could  give  him  au}^  account  of  Erfurt,  where  he  had  spent 
a veiy  pleasant  time  on  a short  visit. 

As  he  asked  me  about  the  family  of  the  Dacherddes.  aud 
about  the  Coadjutor  von  Dalberg,  I was  able  to  gh’e  some 
account  of  them,  at  which  he  seemed  much  delighted,  aud 
inquired  after  other  people  of  Thuringia.  With  considerable 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


285 


interest  he  then  inquired  about  Weimar.  “And  how,”  he 
asked,  “ is  the  person,  who,  full  of  youth  and  vivacity  when 
I was  there,  was  the  life  of  society?  I have  forgotten  his 
name,  but  he  is  the  author  of  ‘ AVeither.’  ” 

After  a little  pause,  as  if  for  the  sake  of  tasking  my 
memory,  I answered,  “ I am  the  person  whom  you  are  in- 
quiring about.”  With  the  most  visible  signs  of  astonish- 
ment he  sprung  back,  exclaiming,  “ There  must  have  been 
a great  change  then  ! ” “ Oh,  yes  ! ” I rejoined,  “ between 

Palermo  and  Weimar  I have  gone  through  many  a change.” 
At  this  moment  the  viceroy  and  suite  entered  the  apart- 
ment. His  carriage  evinced  that  graceful  freedom  which 
became  so  distinguished  a personage.  He  could  not  refrain 
from  laughing  at  the  Maltese,  as  he  went  on  expressing  his 
astonishment  to  see  me  here.  At  table  I sat  by  the  side  of 
the  viceroy,  who  inquired  into  the  objects  of  my  journey, 
and  assured  me  that  he  would  give  orders  that  every  thing  in 
Palermo  should  be  open  to  my  inspection,  and  that  every 
possible  facility  should  be  given  me  during  my  tour  through 
Sicily. 


Paleemo, 

Monday,  April  9,  1787. 

This  whole  day  has  been  taken  up  with  the  stupidities  of 
the  Prince  Pallagonia,  whose  follies  are  thoroughly  different 
from  what  one  would  form  an  idea  of  either  by  reading  or  by 
hearing  of  them.  For,  with  the  slightest  love  of  truth,  he 
who  wishes  to  furnish  an  account  of  the  absurd,  gets  into  a 
dilemma  : he  is  anxious  to  give  an  idea  of  it,  and  so  makes  it 
something,  whereas,  in  reality,  it  is  a nothing  which  seeks  to 
pass  for  something.  And  here  I must  premise  another  gen- 
eral reflection  ; viz.,  that  neither  the  most  tasteless  nor  the 
most  excellent  production  comes  entii’ely  and  immediately 
from  a single  individual  or  a single  age,  but  that  with  a little 
attention  any  one  may  trace  its  pedigree  and  descent. 

The  fountain  already  described  in  Palermo  belongs  to  the 
forefathers  of  the  Pallagonian  follies,  only  that  the  latter,  in 
their  own  soil  and  domain,  develop  themselves  with  the  gi’eat- 
est  freedom  and  on  the  largest  scale. 

When  in  these  parts  a country-seat  is  built,  it  is  usually 
placed  in  the  middle  of  a whole  property  : and  therefore,  in 
order  to  reach  the  princely  mansion,  you  have  to  pass  through 
cultivated  fields,  kitchen-gardens,  and  similar  rural  conven- 
iences ; for  these  Southerns  show  far  more  of  economy  than 


286 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


we  Northmen,  who  often  waste  a good  piece  of  rich  land  on  a 
park,  which,  with  its  barren  shrubs,  can  only  charm  the  eye. 
But  here  it  is  the  fashion  to  build  two  walls,  between  which 
you  pass  to  the  castle,  without  knowing  in  the  least  what  is 
doing  on  j'our  right  and  left.  This  passage  begins  generally 
with  a grand  portico,  and  sometimes  with  a vaulted  hall,  and 
ends  with  the  mansion  itself.  But,  in  order  that  the  eye 
may  not  be  entirely  without  relief  between  these  by-walls, 
they  are  generally  arched  over,  and  ornamented  with  scrolls, 
and  also  with  pedestals,  on  which,  here  and  there,  a vase  is 
placed.  The  flat  surfaces  are  plastered,  divided  into  com- 
partments, and  painted.  The  court  is  formed  by  a circle  of 
one-storied  cabins,  in  which  work-people  of  all  sorts  reside, 
while  the  quadrangular  castle  towers  overall. 

This  is  the  sort  of  building  which  is  here  traditionally 
adopted,  and  which  probably  was  the  old  form,  when  the 
father  of  the  present  prince  rebuilt  the  castle,  not  in  the 
best,  but  still  in  tolerable  taste.  But  the  present  possessor, 
without  abandoning  the  general  features  of  this  style,  gave 
free  course  to  his  humor  and  passion  for  the  most  ill-shapen 
and  tasteless  of  erections.  One  would  do  him  too  much 
honor  by  giving  him  credit  for  even  one  spark  of  taste. 

We  entered,  therefore,  the  great  hall,  which  stands  at  the 
beginning  of  the  property,  and  found  ourselves  in  an  octag- 
onal room,  of  a breadth  altogether  disproportioned  to  its 
height.  Four  vast  giants  with  modern  spatterdashes,  which 
had  just  been  buttoned  on,  support  the  cornice,  on  which, 
directly  meeting  the  eye  as  you  enter,  is  a representation  of 
the  Holy  Trinity. 

The  passage  to  the  castle  is  broader  than  usual,  the  wall 
being  converted  into  one  continuous  high  socle  : from  which 
basemeut  the  strangest  groups  possible  reach  to  the  top, 
while  in  the  spaces  between  them  several  vases  are  placed. 
The  ugliness  of  these  unshapely  figures  (the  bungling  work 
of  the  most  ordinary  mason)  is  increased  by  their  having 
been  cut  out  of  a very  crumbl}'  muscheltufa  : although,  per- 
haps, a better  material  would  have  made  the  badness  of 
the  form  still  more  striking  to  the  eye.  I used  the  word 
“groups”  a moment  ago;  but  I have  employed  a wrong 
term,  inappropriate  in  this  place.  For  they  are  mere  juxta- 
positions, determined  b}*  no  thought,  but  by  mere  arbitrary 
caprice.  In  each  case  three  form  the  ornament  of  a square 
pedestal,  their  bases  being  so  arranged  as  to  fill  up  the  space 
by  their  various  postures.  The  principal  groups  have  gener- 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


287 


ally  two  figures,  which  occupj’  the  chief  face  of  the  pedestal, 
and  then  two  are  yet  wanting  to  fill  up  the  back  part  of  the 
pedestal.  One  of  a moderate  size  generally  represents  a 
shepherd  or  shepherdess,  a cavalier  or  a lady,  a dancing  ape 
or  a hound.  »Still  there  is  a vacant  spot  on  the  pedestal ; 
this  is  generally  held  by  a dwarf,  — as,  indeed,  in  dull  jokes, 
this  sort  of  gentiy  usually  play  a conspicuous  part. 

That  we  may  not  omit  anv  of  the  elements  of  Prince  Pal- 
lagonia’s  folly,  we  give  you  the  accompanying  catalogue. 
Men  : Beggars,  male  and  female,  Spanish  men  and  women, 
Moors,  Turks,  hunchbacks,  cripples  of  all  sorts,  strolling 
musicians,  pulcinellos,  soldiers  in  ancient  uniforms,  gods, 
goddesses,  gentlemen  in  old  French  costumes,  soldiers  with 
cartouche  boxes  and  gaiters,  mythological  personages  (with 
most  ridiculous  companions,  — Achilles  and  Charon,  for  in- 
stance, with  Punch) . Animals  (merely  parts  of  them)  : 
Heads  of  horses  on  human  bodies,  mis-shapen  apes,  lots  of 
dragons  and  serpents,  all  sorts  of  feet  under  figures  of  all 
kinds,  double-headed  monsters,  and  creatures  with  heads  that 
do  not  belong  to  them.  Vases : All  sorts  of  monsters  and 
scrolls,  which  below  end  in  the  hollows  and  bases  of  vases. 

Just  let  any  one  think  of  such  figures  furnished  by  whole- 
sale, produced  without  thought  or  sense,  and  arranged  with- 
out choice  or  purpose,  — only  let  him  conceive  to  himself  this 
socle,  these  pedestals  and  unshajrely  objects  in  an  endless 
series,  and  he  will  be  able  to  sympathize  with  the  disagree- 
able feelings  which  must  seize  every  one  whose  miserable 
fate  condemns  him  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  such  absurdities. 

We  now  approach  the  castle,  and  are  received  into  a semi- 
circular fore-court.  The  chief  wall  before  us,  through  which 
is  the  entrance-door,  is  in  the  castle  style.  Here  we  find 
an  Egyptian  figure  built  into  the  wall,  a fountain  without 
water,  a monument,  vases  stuck  around  in  no  sort  of  order, 
statues  designedly  laid  on  their  noses.  Next  we  came  to  the 
castle  court,  and  found  the  usual  round  area,  enclosed  with 
little  cottages,  distorted  into  small  semicircles,  in  order,  for- 
sooth, that  there  might  be  no  want  of  variety. 

The  ground  is,  for  the  most  part,  overgrown  with  grass. 
Here,  as  in  the  neighborhood  of  a church  in  ruins,  are  marble 
urns  with  strange  scrolls  and  foliations,  collected  by  his 
father ; dwarfs  and  other  abortions  of  the  later  epoch,  for 
which,  as  yet,  fitting  places  have  not  been  found  ; one  even 
comes  upon  an  arbor,  propped  up  with  ancient  vases,  and 
stone  scrolls  of  various  shapes. 


288 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


The  absurdities  produced  by  such  want  of  judgment  and 
taste,  however,  are  strikingly  instanced  by  the  fact,  that  the 
window  sills  in  these  cottages  are,  without  exception,  oblique, 
and  lean  to  one  side  or  the  other,  so  as  to  offend  and  violate 
all  sense  of  the  level  and  perpendicular,  w'hich  are  so  indis- 
jrensable  in  the  human  mind,  and  form  the  foundation  of 
all  architectural  propriety.  And  then,  again,  the  edges  of  all 
the  roofs  are  embellished  with  h3’dras  and  little  busts,  with 
choirs  of  monkeys  pla3'iug  music,  and  similar  conceits. 
Dragons  alternate  with  deities  ; an  Atlas,  who  sustains  not 
the  mundane  sphere,  but  an  empty  wine-barrel ! 

One  hopes  to  escape  from  all  this  by  entering  the  castle, 
which,  having  been  built  by  the  father,  presents  relatively  a 
more  rational  appearance  when  viewed  from  the  exterior. 
But  in  vain ; for  at  no  great  distance  from  the  door,  one 
stumbles  upon  the  laurel-crowned  head  of  a Roman  emperor 
on  the  body  of  a dwarf,  who  is  sitting  astride  a dolphin. 

Now,  in  the  castle  itself,  of  which  the  exterior  gives  hope 
of  at  least  a tolerable  interior,  the  madness  of  the  prince 
begins  again  to  rave.  Many  of  the  seats  have  lost  their  legs, 
so  that  no  one  can  sit  upon  them  ; and  if  some  appear  to 
promise  a resting-place,  the  chamberlain  warns  you  against 
them,  as  having  sharp  prickles  beneath  theii’  satin-covered 
cushions.  In  all  the  corners  are  candelabras  of  porcelain 
china,  w'hich,  on  a nearer  view,  j’ou  discover  to  be  cemented 
together  out  of  different  bowls,  cups,  saucers,  etc.,  etc.  Not 
a corner  but  some  whim  peeps  out  of  it.  Even  the  une- 
qualled prospect  over  the  promontory  into  the  sea  is  spoiled 
by  colored  glass,  which,  b}'  its  false  lights,  gives  either  a 
cold  or  a fiery  tint  to  the  neighboring  scenes.  I must  also 
mention  a cabinet,  which  is  inlaid  with  old  gold  frames,  cut 
in  pieces.  All  the  hundred-fold  carvings,  all  the  endless 
varieties  of  ancient  and  modern,  more  or  less  dust-stained 
and  time-injured,  gilding,  closely  huddled  together,  cover  all 
the  walls,  and  give  you  the  idea  of  a miniature  lumber-room. 

To  describe  the  chapel  alone  would  require  a volume. 
Here  one  finds  the  solution  of  the  whole  folh*.  which  could 
never  have  reached  such  a pitch  in  au}’  but  a bigoted  mind. 
How  many  monstrous  creations  of  a false  and  misled  devo- 
tion are  here  to  be  found,  I must  leave  you  to  guess  for 
yourself.  However,  I cannot  refrain  from  mentioning  the 
most  outrageous  : a carved  crucifix  is  fastened  flat  to  the 
roof,  painted  after  nature,  lackered  and  gilded  : into  the  na- 
vel of  the  figure  attached  to  the  cross,  a hook  is  screwed, 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


289 


and  from  the  latter  hangs  a chain  which  is  fastened  to 
the  head  of  a man  who,  in  a kneeling  and  praying  posture,  is 
suspended  in  the  air,  and,  like  all  the  other  figures  in  the 
church,  is  painted  and  lackered.  In  all  probability  it  is  in- 
tended to  serve  as  a type  of  the  owner’s  unceasing  devotion. 

Moreover,  the  house  is  not  finished  within.  A hall  built 
by  the  father,  and  intended  to  be  decorated  with  rich  and 
varied  ornaments,  but  not  tricked  out  in  a false  and  offensive 
taste,  is  still  incomplete ; so  that,  it  would  seem,  even  the 
boundless  madness  of  the  possessor  is  at  a stand-stiU. 

Kuiep’s  artistic  feeling  was  almost  driven  to  desperation 
in  this  mad-house  ; and,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I found 
him  quite  impatient.  He  hurried  me  away,  when  I wished 
to  take  a note  of,  and  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of,  these 
monstrous  absurdities,  one  by  one.  Good-naturedly  enough, 
he  at  last  took  a sketch  of  one  of  these  compositions,  which 
did,  at  least,  form  a kind  of  group.  It  represents  a woman 
with  a horse’s  head,  'sitting  on  a stool,  and  playing  at  cards 
with  a cavalier,  dressed,  as  to  his  lower  extremities,  in  the 
old  fashion,  while  his  gray  head  is  ornamented  with  a large 
wig  and  a crown.  The  statue  reminded  me  of  the  arms  of 
the  house  of  Pallagonia,  — a satyr,  holding  up  a mirror 
before  a woman  with  a horse’s  head,  which,  even  after  all  the 
strange  follies  of  its  present  head,  seems  to  me  highly 
singular. 

Palermo, 

Tuesday,  April  10,  1787. 

To-day  we  took  a drive  up  the  mountains  to  Monreale, 
along  a glorious  road  which  was  laid  down  by  an  abbot  of 
this  cloister  in  the  times  of  its  opulence  and  wealth,  — broad, 
of  easy  ascent ; trees  here  and  there  ; springs,  and  dripping 
wells,  decked  out  with  ornaments  and  scrolls  somewhat  Pal- 
lagonian  in  style,  but  still,  in  spite  of  all  that,  refreshing  to 
both  man  and  beast. 

* The  monastery  of  St.  Martin,  which  lies  on  the  height,  is 
a respectable  building.  One  bachelor  alone,  as  we  see  in  the 
case  of  Prince  Pallagonia,  has  seldom  produced  any  thing 
rational ; but  several  together,  on  the  other  hand,  have 
effected  the  greatest  works,  such  as  churches  and  monas- 
teries. But  perhaps  these  spiritual  fraternities  produced  so 
much,  simply  because,  more  than  any  father  of  a family, 
they  could  reckon  with  certain tj'  on  a numerous  posterity. 

The  monks  readily  permitted  us  to  view  their  collection 


290 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


of  antiques  and  natural  objects.  They  contained  many  excel- 
lent specimens  of  both.  Our  attention  was  particular!}’  fixed 
by  a medallion,  with  the  figure  of  a young  goddess,  which 
must  excite  the  rapture  of  eveiy  beholder.  The  good  monks 
would  willingly  have  given  us  a copy,  but  there  was  nothing 
within  reach  which  would  do  to  make  a mould. 

After  they  had  exhibited  to  us  all  their  treasures,  — not 
without  entering  on  an  unfavorable  comparison  of  their  pres- 
ent with  their  former  condition,  — they  led  us  into  a small 
but  pleasant  room,  from  the  balcony  of  which  one  enjoyed  a 
lovely  prospect.  Here  covers  were  laid  for  us  alone,  and  we 
had  a very  excellent  dinner  to  ourselves.  When  the  dessert 
was  served,  the  abbot  and  the  senior  monks  entered,  and 
took  their  seats.  They  remained  nearly  half  an  hour,  during 
which  time  we  had  to  answer  many  questions.  We  took  a 
most  friendly  farewell  of  them.  The  younger  brethren  ac- 
companied us  once  more  to  the  rooms  where  the  collections 
were  kept,  and  at  last  to  our  carnage. 

We  drove  home  with  feelings  verj’  different  from  those  of 
yesterday.  To-day  we  had  to  regret  a noble  institution 
which  was  falling  with  time ; while,  on  the  other  hand,  a 
most  tasteless  undertaking  had  a constant  supply  of  wealth 
for  its  support. 

The  road  to  St.  Martin  ascends  a hill  of  the  earlier  lime- 
stone formation.  The  rock  is  quarried  and  broken,  and 
burnt  into  lime,  which  is  very  white.  For  burning  the  stone, 
they  make  use  of  a long,  coarse  sort  of  grass,  which  is  dried 
in  bundles.  Here,  too,  it  is  that  the  calorex  is  produced. 
Even  on  the  most  precipitous  heights  lies  a red  clay,  of  allu- 
vial origin,  w’hich  serves  the  purposes  of  our  dam-earth. 
The  higher  it  lies  the  redder  it  is,  and  is  but  little  blackened 
b}’  vegetation.  I saw,  at  a distance,  a ravine  almost  like 
cinnabar. 

The  monastery  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  limestone  hill, 
W’hich  is  ver}’  rich  in  springs. 


Palermo, 

Wednesday,  April  11,  1787. 

Having  explored  the  two  principal  objects  without  the 
city,  we  betook  ourselves  to  the  palace,  where  a busy  courier 
showed  us  the  rooms  and  their  contents.  To  our  great 
horror,  the  room  in  which  the  antiques  are  generally  placed 
was  in  the  greatest  disorder,  in  consequence  of  the  walls 
being  in  the  process  of  decoration.  The  statues  were 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


291  . 

removed  from  their  usual  places,  covered  with  cloth,  and  pro- 
tected by  wooden  frames  ; so  that  in  spite  of  the  good  will 
of  our  guide,  and  some  trouble  on  the  part  of  the  work- 
people, we  could  only  gain  a very  imperfect  idea  of  them. 
My  attention  was  chiefly  occupied  with  two  rams  in  bronze, 
which,  notwithstanding  the  unfavorable  circumstances,  highly 
delighted  our  artistic  taste.  They  are  represented  in  a 
recumbent  posture,  with  one  foot  stretched  out  before  them, 
with  the  heads  (in  order  to  form  a pair)  turned  on  different 
sides.  Powerful  forms,  belonging  to  the  mythological  family, 
and  well  worthy  to  carry  Phrixus  and  Helle.  The  wool,  not 
short  and  crisp,  but  long  and  flowing,  with  a slight  wave, 
and  shape  most  true  to  nature,  and  extremely  elegant : they 
evidently  belonged  to  the  best  period  of  Grecian  art.  They 
are  said  to  have  stood  originally  in  the  harbor  of  Syracuse. 

The  courier  now  took  us  out  of  the  city  to  the  catacombs, 
which,  laid  out  on  a regular  architectural  plan,  are  any  thing 
but  quarries  converted  into  burial-places.  In  a rock  of  tufa, 
of  tolerable  hardness,  the  side  of  which  has  been  worked  level 
and  perpendicular,  vaulted  openings  have  been  cut ; and  in 
these,  again,  are  hewn  several  tiers  of  sarcophagi,  one  above 
the  other,  all  of  the  natural  material,  without  masonry  of 
any  kind.  The  upper  tiers  are  smaller,  and  in  the  spaces 
over  the  pillars  are  tombs  for  children. 


Palermo, 

Thursday,  April  12. 

To  day  we  have  been  shown  Prince  Torremuzza’s  cabinet 
of  medals.  I was,  in  a certain  degree,  loth  to  go  there. 
I am  too  little  versed  in  these  matters,  and  a mere  curiosity- 
mongering  traveller  is  thoroughly  detested  by  all  true  con- 
noisseurs and  scholars.  But  as  one  must  in  every  case  make 
a beginning,  I made  myself  easy  on  this  head,  and  have 
derived  both  gratification  and  profit  from  my  visit.  What  a 
satisfaction,  even  cursorily,  to  glance  at  the  fact  that  the  old 
world  was  thickly  sown  with  cities,  the  smallest  of  which  has 
bequeathed  to  us  in  its  precious  coins,  if  not  a complete 
series,  yet  at  lest  some  epochs,  of  its  history  of  art.  Out  of 
these  cabinets,  there  smiles  upon  us  an  eternal  spring  of  the 
blossoms  and  flowers  of  art,  of  a busy  life  ennobled  with 
high  tastes,  and  of  much  more  besides.  Out  of  these  form- 
endowed  pieces  of  metal,  the  glory  of  the  Sicilian  cities,  now 
obscured,  still  shines  forth  fresh  before  us. 

Unfortunately,  we  in  our  youth  had  seen  none  but  family 


292 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


coins,  which  say  nothing,  and  the  coins  of  the  Caesars,  which 
repeat  to  satiety  the  same  profile,  — portraits  of  rulers  who  are 
to  be  regarded  as  any  thing  but  models  of  humanity.  How 
sadly  had  our  youth  been  confined  to  a shapeless  Palestine, 
and  to  a shape-perplexing  Rome  ! Sicily  and  Nova  Graecia 
give  me  hopes  again  of  a fresh  existence. 

That  on  these  subjects  I should  enter  into  general  reflec- 
tions, is  a proof  that  as  yet  I do  not  understand  much  about 
them  ; yet  that,  with  all  the  rest,  will  in  degrees  be  improved. 

Palermo, 

Thursday,  April  12,  1787. 

This  evening  a wish  of  mine  was  gi’atitied,  and  in  a very 
singular  fashion.  I was  standing  on  the  pavement  of  the 
principal  street,  joking  at  the  window  with  -the  shopkeeper 
I formerly  mentioned,  when  suddenly  a footman,  tall  and 
well-dressed,  came  up  to  me,  and  quickly  poked  a silver 
salver  before  me,  on  which  were  several  copper  coins  and  a 
few  pieces  of  silver.  As  I could  not  make  out  what  it  all 
meant,  I shook  my  head  and  shrugged  my  shoulders,  the  usual 
token  by  which  in  this  country  you  get  rid  of  those  whose 
address  or  question  yon  either  cannot,  or  do  not  wish  to, 
understand. 

“What  does  all  this  mean?’’  I asked  of  my  friend  the 
shopkeeper,  who,  with  a veiT  significant  mien,  and  somewhat 
stealthily,  pointed  to  a lank  and  haggard  gentleman,  who, 
elegantly  dressed,  was  walking  with  great  dignity  and  indif- 
ference through  the  dung  and  dirt.  Frizzled  and  powdered, 
with  his  hat  under  his  arm,  in  a silken  vest,  with  his  sword  by 
his  side,  and  having  a neat  shoe  ornamented  with  a jewelled 
buckle,  the  old  man  walked  on  calmly  and  soiTOwfully. 
All  e}'es  were  directed  towards  him. 

“It  is  Prince  Pallagonia,’’  said  the  dealer,  “who,  from 
time  to  time,  goes  through  the  city  collecting  money  to  ran- 
som the  slaves  in  Barbary.  It  is  true,  he  does  not  get  much 
by  his  collection,  but  the  object  is  kept  in  memory  ; and  so 
it  often  happens  that  those  who,  in  their  life-time,  were  back- 
ward in  giving,  leave  large  legacies  at  their  death.  The 
prince  has  for  many  j’ears  been  at  the  head  of  this  society, 
and  has  done  a great  deal  of  good.’’ 

“ Instead  of  wasting  so  much  on  the  follies  of  his  country- 
house,’’  I cried,  “ he  might  have  spent  the  same  large  sum 
on  this  object.  Then  no  prince  in  the  world  would  have 
accomplished  more.’’ 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


293 


To  this  the  shopkeeper  rejoined:  “But  is  not  that  the 
way  with  ns  all?  We  are  ready  enough  to  pa}'  for  our  own 
follies.  Our  viitues  must  look  to  the  purses  of  others  for 
theii’  support.” 


Palermo,  April  13,  1787. 

Count  Borck  has  very  diligently  worked  before  us  in  the 
mineralogy  of  Sicily,  and  whoever  of  the  same  mind  visits 
the  island  after  him,  must  williugl}^  acknowledge  his  obliga- 
tions to  him.  I feel  it  a pleasure,  no  less  than  a duty,  to 
celebrate  the  memory  of  my  predecessor.  And  what  am  I 
more  thau  a forerunner  of  others  yet  to  be,  both  in  m}'  trav- 
els and  life. 

However,  the  industry  of  the  count  seems  to  me  to  have 
been  greater  than  his  knowledge.  He  appears  to  have  gone  to 
work  with  a certain  reserve,  which  is  altogether  opposed  to  that 
stern  earnestness  with  which  grand  objects  should  be  treated. 

Nevertheless,  his  essay  in  quarto,  which  is  exclusively 
devoted  to  the  mineralogy  of  Sicily,  has  been  of  great  use 
to  me ; and,  prepared  by  it,  I w'as  able  to  profit  by  mj'  visit 
to  the  quarries,  w'hich  formerly,  w'heu  it  was  the  custom  to 
case  the  churches  and  altars  w'ith  marble  and  agate,  were 
more  busily  worked,  though  even  now  they  are  not  idle.  I 
purchased  from  them  some  specimens  of  the  hard  and  soft 
stones  ; for  it  is  thus  that  they  usually  designate  the  marble 
and  agate,  chiefly  because  a difference  of  price  mainly 
depends  on  this  clifference  of  quality.  But,  besides  these, 
they  have  still  another  for  a material  which  is  tlie  produce  of 
the  fire  of  their  kilns.  In  these,  after  each  burning,  they 
find  a sort  of  glassy  flux,  which  in  color  varies  from  the 
lightest  to  the  darkest,  and  even  blackest  blue.  These 
lumps  are,  like  other  stones,  cut  into  thin  lamina,  and  then 
pierced,  according  to  the  height  of  their  color  and  their 
purity,  and  are  successfully  employed,  in  the  place  of  lapis 
lazuli,  in  the  decoration  of  churches,  altars,  and  sepulchral 
monuments. 

A complete  collection,  such  as  I wished,  is  not  to  be  had 
at  present:  it  is  to  be  sent  after  me  to  Naples.  The  agates 
are  of  the  greatest  beauty,  especially  such  as  are  variegated 
W'ith  irregular  pieces  of  yellow'  or  red  jasper,  and  with  white, 
and  as  it  were  frozen  quartz,  which  produce  the  most  beauti- 
ful effect. 

A very  accurate  imitation  of  these  agates,  produced  by 
lake  coloring  on  the  back  of  thin  plates  of  glass,  is  the 


294 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


only  rational  thing  that  I observed  the  other  day  among  the 
Pallagonian  follies.  Such  imitations  are  far  better  for  deco- 
rations than  the  real  agate  ; since  the  latter  are  only  found  in 
very  small  pieces,  whereas  the  size  of  the  former  depends  on 
nothing  but  the  size  of  the  artist’s  plate.  This  contrivance 
of  art  well  deserves  to  be  imitated. 

Italy  without  Sicily  leaves  no  image  on  the  soul : here  is 
the  key  to  alt. 

Of  the  climate  it  is  impossible  to  say  enough.  It  is  now 
rainy  weather,  but  not  uninterruptedly  wet ; yesterday  it 
thundered  and  lightened,  and  to-day  all  is  intensely  green. 
The  fla.x  has  in  places  already  put  forth  joints  : in  others  it 
is  boiling.  Looking  down  from  the  hills,  one  fancies  he  sees 
in  the  plain  below  little  ponds,  so  beautifully  blue-green  are 
the  flax-fields  here  and  there.  Living  objects  without  num- 
ber surround  you.  And  my  companion  is  an  excellent 
fellow,  the  true  Hoffegut  (Hopeful) , and  I honestly  sustain 
the  part  of  the  True  friend.  He  has  already  made  some 
beautiful  sketches,  and  will  take  still  more  before  we  go. 
"What  a prospect,  — to  return  home  some  day,  happy,  and 
with  all  these  treasures  ! 

Of  the  meat  and  drink  here,  in  the  country,  I have  said 
nothing  as  3’et : however,  it  is  bj’  no  means  an  indifferent 
matter.  The  garden-stuffs  are  excellent,  especially  the  let- 
tuce, which  is  particularly  tender,  with  a milky  taste : it 
makes  one  understand  at  once  wh}'  the  ancients  termed  it 
lactuca.  Oil  and  wine  of  all  kinds  are  very  good,  and 
might  be  still  better  if  more  care  were  bestowed  on  their 
preparation.  Fish  of  the  very  best  and  tenderest.  We 
have  had,  too,  very  good  beef,  though  generally  people  do 
not  praise  it. 

Now,  after  dinner,  to  the  window! — to  the  streets!  A 
malefactor  has  just  been  pardoned,  an  event  which  takes 
place  every  }mar  in  honor  of  the  festival  of  Easter.  The 
brethren  of  some  order  or  other  led  him  to  the  foot  of  a 
gallows  which  had  been  erected  for  sake  of  the  ceremony ; 
then  the  criminal  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder  offers  up  a prayer 
or  two,  and,  having  kissed  the  scaffold,  is  led  away  again. 
He  was  a good-looking  fellow  of  the  middle  age,  in  a white 
coat,  white  hat,  and  all  else  white.  He  carried  his  hat  in 
^his  hand  : at  diffetent  points  they  attached  variegated  rib- 
bons to  him,  so  that  at  last  he  was  quite  in  tune  to  go  to  any 
masquerade  in  the  character  of  a shepherd. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


295 


Palermo, 

April  13  and  11,  1787. 

So,  then,  before  my  departure,  I was  to  meet  with  a 
strange  adventure,  of  which  I must  forthwith  give  you  a cu’- 
cumstautial  account. 

The  whole  time  of  my  residence  here,  I have  heard 
scarcely  any  topic  of  conversation  at  the  ordinary,  but 
Cagliostro,  his  origin  and  adventures.  The  people  of 
Palermo  are  all  unanimous  in  asserting  that  a certain  Joseph 
Balsamo  was  born  in  their  city,  and,  having  rendered  himself 
infamous  by  many  disgraceful  acts,  was  banished.  But 
whether  this  person  is  identical  with  Count  Cagliostro,  was  a 
point  on  which  opinions  were  divided.  Some  who  knew 
Balsamo  personally  asserted  they  recognized  his  features  in 
the  engraving,  which  is  well  known  in  Germany,  and  which 
has  also  travelled  as  far  as  Palermo. 

In  one  of  these  conversations,  one  of  the  guests  referred 
to  the  trouble  which  a Palermitan  lawyer  had  taken  in  exam- 
ining this  matter.  He  seems  to  have  been  commissioned 
by  the  LTench  Ministi’y  to  trace  the  origin  of  an  indi- 
■vddual,  who  in  the  face  of  France,  and,  indeed,  of  the 
whole  world,  had  had  the  temerity  to  utter  the  silliest  of  idle 
tales  in  the  midst  of  a legal  process  which  involved  the 
most  important  interests  and  the  reputation  of  the  highest 
personages. 

This  lawyer,  it  was  asserted,  had  prepared  the  pedigree  of 
Giuseppe  Balsamo,  together  with  an  explanatory  memoir 
and  documentaiy  proofs.  It  has  been  forwarded  to  France, 
where  in  all  probability  public  use  will  be  made  of  it. 

As  I expressed  a wish  to  form  the  acquaintance  of  this 
lawyer,  of  whom,  besides,  people  spoke  very  highl}’,  the  per- 
son who  had  recounted  these  facts  offered  to  mention  me  to 
him,  and  to  introduce  me. 

After  a few  days  we  paid  him  a visit,  and  found  him 
busily  engaged  with  his  clients.  When  he  had  dismissed 
them,  and  we  had  taken  a luncheon,  he  produced  a manu- 
script which  contained  a transcript  of  Cagliostro’s  pedigree, 
and  the  rough  draught  of  the  memoir  which  had  been  sent 
to  France. 

He  laid  the  genealogy  before  me,  and  gave  me  the  neces- 
sary explanations  ; of  which  I shall  here  give  you  as  much 
as  is  necessary  to  facilitate  the  understanding  of  the  whole 
business. 

Giuseppe  Balsamo’s  great-grandfather  on  his  mother’s 


296 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


side  was  Matt('?o  Martello.  The  maiden  name  of  his  great- 
grandmother is  unknown.  The  issue  of  this  marriage  were 
two  daughters,  — Maria,  who  married  Giuseppe  Bracconerie, 
and  became  the  grandmother  of  Giuseppe  Balsamo  ; and  Mn- 
cenza,  married  to  Giuseppe  Cagliostro,  who  was  born  in  a 
little  village  called  La  Noava,  about  eight  miles  from  iMes- 
sina.  (I  must  note  here  that  there  are  at  this  moment  living 
at  Messina  two  bellfounders  of  this  name.)  This  great- 
aunt  was  subsequently  godmother  of  Giuseppe  Balsamo, 
who  was  named  after  his  great-uncle,  and  at  last  in  foreign 
countries  assumed  also  the  surname  of  this  relation. 

The  Bracconerie  had  three  children, — Felicita,  Matteo, 
and  Antonia. 

Felicita  was  manned  to  Piedro  Balsamo,  who  was  the  son 
of  Antonia  Balsamo,  ribbon-dealer  in  Palermo,  and  probablj' 
of  Jewish  descent.  Piedro  Balsamo,  the  father  of  the  noto- 
rious Giuseppe,  became  bankrupt,  and  died  in  his  five  an/1 
fortieth  year.  His  widow,  who  is  still  living,  had  borne  him, 
besides  the  above-named  Giuseppe  Giovanna,  Giuseppe 
Maria,  who  married  Giovanna  Battista  Capitummino,  who 
begot  three  children  of  her  body  and  died. 

The  memoir,  which  was  read  to  us  by  its  obliging  author, 
and  was  at  my  request  lent  to  me  for  a few  daj's,  was 
founded  on  baptismal  and  marriage  certificates  and  other 
instruments  which  he  had  collected  with  great  diligence.  It 
contains  pretty  nearly  (as  I conclude  from  a comparison 
with  a summary  which  I then  made)  all  the  circumstances 
which  have  latel}'  been  made  better  known  to  the  world  by 
the  acts  of  the  legal  process  at  Ronre  ; viz.,  that  Giuseppe 
Balsamo  was  born  at  Palermo,  in  the  beginning  of  June, 
1743,  and  that  at  his  baptism  he  was  received  back  from  the 
priest’s  arms  by  Viuceuza  Cagliosti’o  (whose  maiden  name 
was  Martello)  : that  in  his  youth  he  took  the  habit  of  an 
order  of  the  Brothers  of  Mercy,  which  paid  particular  atten- 
tion to  the  sick  ; that  he  had  shown  great  talent  and  skill  for 
medicine,  but  that  for  his  disorderly  practices  he  was 
expelled  the  order,  and  thereupon  set  up  in  Palermo  as  a 
dealer  in  magic,  and  treasure-finder. 

Ilis  great  dexterity  in  imitating  every  kind  of  handwriting 
was  not  allowed  b}"  him  to  lie  idle.  He  falsified,  or  i-ather 
forged,  an  ancient  document,  by  which  the  possession  of 
some  lauds  was  brought  into  litigation.  Fie  was  soon  an 
object  of  suspicion,  and  cast  into  prison,  but  made  his  es- 
cape, and  was  cited  to  appear  under  penalty  of  outlawry. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


297 


He  passed  through  Calabria  towards  Rome',  where  he  mar- 
ried the  daughter  of  a beltmaker.  From  Rome  he  came 
back  to  Naples,  under  the  name  of  the  Marchese  Pellegrini. 
He  even  ventured  to  pay  a visit  to  Palermo,  was  recognized, 
and  taken  prisoner,  and  made  his  escape  in  a manner  that 
well  deserves  being  circumstantially  detailed. 

One  of  the  principal  nobles  of  Sicily,  who  possessed  very 
large  property,  and  held  several  important  posts  at  the 
Neapolitan  court,  had  a sou,  who  to  a frame  of  unusual 
strength,  and  an  uncontrollable  temper,  united  all  the  wanton 
excesses  which  the  rich  and  great,  without  education,  can 
think  themselves  privileged  to  indulge  in. 

Donna  Lorenza  had  managed  to  attract  him,  and  on  him 
the  pretended  Marchese  Pellegrini  relied  for  impunity.  The 
prince  avowed  openly  his  patronage  of  this  couple  of  new- 
comers, and  set  no  bounds  to  his  rage  when  Giuseppe  Bal- 
samo,  at  the  instance  of  the  party  whom  he  had  injured,  was 
a second  time  cast  into  prison.  He  had  recourse  to  various 
means  to  obtain  his  liberation  ; and,  when  these  were  unsuc- 
cessful, he,  in  the  very  ante-room  of  the  president’s  court, 
threatened  the  advocate  of  the  opposite  party  with  the  most 
dreadful  consequences  if  he  did  not  consent  to  the  release  of 
Balsamo.  As  the  opposing  advocate  refused  his  consent, 
he  rushed  upon  him,  struck  him,  knocked  him  down,  and 
kicked  him,  and  was  only  with  difficulty  restrained  from 
further  violence  when  the  judge,  hearing  the  noise,  rushed  in 
and  commanded  peace. 

The  latter,  a weak  and  cringing  character,  had  not  the 
courage  to  punish  the  wrong-doer.  The  opposite  party, 
advocate  and  all,  were  men  of  little  minds  ; and  so  Balsamo 
was  set  at  lil)erty,  without,  however,  any  record  of  his  libera- 
tion being  found  among  the  proceedings,  neither  by  whose 
orders,  or  in  what  manner  it  was  effected. 

Shortly  after  this  he  left  Palermo,  and  travelled  in  differ- 
ent countries  ; of  which  travels,  however,  the  author  of  the 
memoir  had  been  oul}'  able  to  collect  very  imperfect  informa- 
tion. 

The  memoir  ended  with  an  acute  argument  to  prove  the 
identity  of  Balsamo  and  Cagliostro,  — a position  which  was 
at  this  time  more  difficult  to  prove  than  at  present,  now  that, 
the  whole  history  of  this  individual  has  been  made  public. 

Had  I not  been  led  to  form  a conjecture  that  a public  use 
would  have  been  made  in  France  of  this  essa}^  and  that  on 
my  return  I should  find  it  already  in  print,  I doubt  not  but  I 


298 


LETTERS  FROM  TJ'ALY. 


should'  been  permitted  to  take  a transcript  of  it,  and  to 
give  m'  lends  and  the  public  an  early  account  of  many  in- 
teresting, ]’-cuinstances. 

Howe\  A',  we  have  received  the  fullest  account  (and  even 
more  particulars  than  this  memoir  contains)  from  a quarter 
which  usually  is  the  source  of  nothing  but  errors.  Who 
would  have  believed  that  Rome  would  ever  have  done  so 
much  for  the  enlightening  of  the  world,  and  for  the  utter  ex- 
posure of  an  impostor,  as  she  has  done  by  publishing  the 
summary  of  the  proceedings  in  this  case?  For  although  this 
work  ought  and  might  be  much  more  interesting,  it  is,  never- 
theless, an  excellent  document  in  the  hands  of  every  rational 
mind,  who  cannot  but  feel  deep  regret  to  see  the  deceived, 
and  those  who  were  not  more  deceived  than  deceivers,  going 
on  for  years  admiring  this  man  and  his  mummeries  ; feeling 
themselves  by  fellowship  with  him  raised  above  the  common 
mass,  and  from  the  heights  of  this  credulous  vanit\'  pitying, 
if  not  despising,  the  sound  common  sense  of  mankind  in 
general. 

Who  was  not  willingly  silent  all  the  while?  And  even  now. 
at  last,  when  the  whole  alfair  is  ended  and  placed  beyond 
dispute,  it  is  only  with  difficult}^  that  I can  prevail  upon  my- 
self, in  order  to  complete  the  official  account,  to  communi- 
cate some  particulars  which  have  here  become  known  to  me. 

When  I found  in  the  genealogy  so  many  persons  (espe- 
' daily  his  mother  and  sisters)  mentioned  as  still  living.  I ex- 
pressed to  the  author  of  the  memoir  a wish  to  see  them,  and 
to  form  the  acquaintance  of  the  other  relatives  of  so  notorious 
an  individual.  lie  remarked  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  bring 
it  about ; since  these  persons,  poor  but  respectable,  and  living 
very  retired,  were  not  accustomed  to  receive  visitors,  and 
that  their  natural  suspicion  would  be  roused  by  any  attempt 
of  the  kind.  However,  he  was  ready  to  send  to  me  his  copy- 
ing-clerk, who  had  access  to  the  family,  and  by  whose  means 
he  had  procured  the  information  and  documents  out  of  which 
the  pedigree  had  been  compiled. 

The  next  day  his  amanuensis  made  his  appearance,  and 
expressed  several  scruples  upon  the  matter.  “I  have  hith 
erto,”  he  said,  carefully  avoided  coming  within  sight  of 
these  persons.  For  in  order  to  get  into  my  hands  the  certifi- 
cates of  baptism  and  marriage,  so  as  to  be  alile  to  take  legally 
authenticated  copies  of  them.  I was  obliged  to  have  recourse 
to  a little  trick.  I took  occasion  to  speak  of  some  little 
family  property  that  was  somehow  or  other  unclaimed  ; made 


LETTERS  FRO:\r  ITALY. 


it  appear  probable  to  them  that  the  young  Capitm  iiaro  was 
entitled  to  it ; but  I told  them  that  first  of  all  it  ^ . neces- 
sary to  make  out  a pedigree,  in  order  to  see  hf  far  the 

youth  could  establish  his  claim  ; that,  however,  1,  success 
must  eveutuallj’  depend  upon  the  law  proceedings,  which  I 
would  willingly  undertake  on  condition  of  receiving  for  my 
trouble  a fair  proportion  of  the  amount  recovered.  The 
good  people  readily  assented  to  every  thing.  I got  pos- 
session of  the  papers  I wanted,  took  copies  of  them,  and 
finished  the  pedigree  : since  then,  however,  I have  cautiously 
kept  out  of  their  sight.  A few  weeks  ago  old  Capituminino  met 
me,  and  it  was  only  by  pleading  the  tardiness  with  which  such 
matters  usually  proceed  that  I managed  to  excuse  myself.” 
Thus  spoke  the  copyist.  As,  however,  I stuck  to  1113'  pur- 
pose, he,  after  some  consideration,  consented  to  take  me  to 
their  house,  and  suggested  that  it  would  be  best  for  me  to 
give  m3'self  out  to  be  an  Englishman  bringing  the  family  tid- 
ings of  Cagliostro,  who,  immediately  after  his  release  from 
the  Bastile,  had  proceeded  to  London. 

At  the  appointed  hour,  about  two  o’clock  in  the  afternoon, 
we  set  out  on  our  expedition.  The  house  was  situated  in 
the  corner  of  a narrow  lane,  not  far  from  the  great  street, 
“II  Casaro.”  We  ascended  a few  wretched  steps,  and  got 
at  once  into  the  kitchen.  A woman  of  middle  size,  strong 
and  broad,  without  being  fat, was  busy  washing  up  the  cook- 
ing utensils.  She  was  neatl}^  and  cleanly  clad,  and,  as  we  en- 
tered, turned  up  the  corner  of  her  apron,  in  order  to  conceal 
from  us  its  dirty  front.  She  seemed  glad  to  see  1113^  guide, 
and  exclaimed,  “Do  3^11  bring  us  good  news.  Signor  Gio- 
vanni ? Have  3'ou  obtained  a decree  V ’ ’ 

He  replied,  “ No  ! I have  not  as  3'et  been  able  to  do  any 
thing  in  our  matter.  However,  here  is  a foreigner  who 
brings  you  a greeting  from  your  brother,  and  who  can  give 
you  an  account  of  his  present  state  and  abode.” 

The  greeting  that  I was  to  bring  did  not  exactly  stand  in 
our  bond.  However,  the  introduction  was  now  made.  “ You 
know  my  brother?”  she  asked  me.  “All  Europe  knows 
him,”  I replied;  “ and  I am  sure  5’ou  will  be  glad  to  hear 
that  he  is  at  present  safe  and  well ; for  assuredl3'  3mu  must 
have  been  in  great  anxiety  about  him.”  — “ Walk  in,”  she 
said,  “ I will  follow  3’ou  immediately;  ” and  so,  with  the 
copying-clerk,  I entered  the  sitting-room. 

It  was  spacious  and  lofty,  and  would  pass  with  us  for  a 
saloon.  It  seemed,  however,  to  form  the  whole  dwelling  of 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


the  family.  A single  window  lighted  the  large  walls,  which 
were  once  colored,  and  on  which  figures  of  the  saints,  taken 
in  black,  hung  in  gilt  frames.  Two  large  beds,  without  cur- 
tains, stood  against  one  wall ; while  a brown  press,  which  had 
the  shape  of  an  escritoire,  was  placed  against  the  opposite 
one.  Old  chairs,  with  rush  bottoms,  the  backs  of  which 
seemed  to  have  once  been  gilded,  stood  on  each  side  of  it ; 
while  the  bricks  of  the  floors  were  m many  places  sunk  deep 
below  the  level.  In  other  respects,  every  thing  was  clean 
and  tidy  ; and  we  made  our  waj’  towards  the  family,  who 
were  gathered  around  the  only  large  window  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room. 

While  my  guide  was  explaining  to  the  old  widow  Balsamo, 
who  sat  in  the  corner,  the  cause  of  our  A’isit,  and,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  deafness  of  the  good  old  woman,  had  frequently 
to  repeat  his  words,  I had  time  to  observe  the  room  and  the 
rest  of  its  occnpants.  A young  girl  about  sixteen  years  of 
age,  well  grown,  whose  features,  however,  the  small-pox  had 
robbed  of  all  expression,  was  standing  at  the  window ; by 
her  side  a young  man,  whose  unpleasant  countenance,  sadly 
disfigured  by  the  small-pox,  also  struck  me.  In  an  arm- 
chair, opposite  the  window,  sat,  or  rather  reclined,  a sick 
and  sadly  deformed  person,  who  seemed  to  be  afflicted  with 
a sort  of  torpor. 

When  my  guide  had  made  himself  understood,  they  in- 
sisted on  our  being  seated.  The  old  woman  put  some  ques- 
tions to  me  ; which  I required  to  have  interpreted  before  I 
could  answer  them,  as  I was  not  very  familiar  with  the  Sicil- 
ian dialect. 

I was  pleased  with  the  examination,  which,  during  this 
conversation,  I made  of  the  old  woman.  She  was  of  mid- 
dle size,  but  of  a good  figure  ; over  her  regular  features  an 
expression  of  calmness  was  diffused,  which  people  usually 
enjoy  who  are  deprived  of  hearing ; the  tone  of  her  voice 
was  soft  and  agreeable. 

I answered  her  questions  ; and  my  answers  had,  in  their 
turn,  to  be  interpreted  to  her. 

The  slowness  of  such  a dialogue  gave  me  an  opportunity 
of  weighing  my  words.  I told  her  that  her  sou,  having  been 
acquitted  in  France,  was  at  present  in  London,  where  he 
had  been  well  received.  The  joy  she  expressed  at  this  news 
was  accompanied  with  exclamations  of  a heartfelt  piety ; 
and  now,^  as  she  spoke  louder  and  more  slowljq  I could  under- 
stand her  better. 


LETTEllS  FROM  ITALY. 


301 


In  the  mean  time  her  daughter  had  come  in,  and  had 
seated  herself  by  the  side  of  my  guide,  who  faithfully  re- 
peated to  her  what  I had  been  saying.  She  had  tied  on  a 
clean  apron,  and  arranged  her  hair  under  a net.  The  more 
I looked  at  and  compared  her  with  her  mother,  the  more 
surprised  I was  at  the  difference  of  their  persons.  A lively', 
health}'  sensibility  spoke  from  every  feature  of  the  daughter : 
she  was  apparentl}-  about  forty  years  old.  AYith  her  cheer- 
ful blue  eyes,  she  looked  about  her  intelligently,  without, 
however,  my  being  able  to  trace  the  least  symptom  of  sus- 
picion. As  she  sat,  her  figure  seemed  to  promise  greater 
height  than  it  showed  when  she  stood  up.  Her  posture  be- 
spoke determination  : she  sat  with  her  body  bent  forwfirds, 
and  her  hands  resting  on  her  knees.  Moreover,  her  full, 
rather  than  sharp  profile,  reminded  me  of  the  portraits  of 
her  brother,  which  I had  seen  in  engravings.  She  asked  me 
several  questions  about  my  travels  ; about  m}'  purpose  in 
visiting  Sicily ; and  would  persuade  herself  that  I should 
most  assuredly  come  again,  and  keep  with  them  the  Festival 
of  St.  Rosalie. 

The  grandmother  having  in  the  mean  time  put  some  ques- 
tions to  me,  the  daughter,  while  I was  busy  answering  them, 
was  speaking  in  an  undertone  to  my  guide  ; so  that  my 
curiosity  was  stimulated  to  ask  what  they  were  talking 
about.  Upon  this  he  said,  Donna  Capitummino  was  just 
telling  him  that  her  brother  owed  her  fourteen  oncie.  In 
order  to  facilitate  his  rapid  departure  from  Palermo,  she  had 
redeemed  some  of  his  things  which  were  in  pawn ; but  since 
then  she  had  not  heard  a word  from  him,  nor  received  any 
money,  nor  help  of  any  kind,  although,  as  she  had  heard, 
he  possessed  great  wealth,  and  kept  a princely  establish- 
ment. "VYould  I not  engage  on  my  return,  at  the  first  favor- 
able moment  to  remind  him  of  this  debt,  and  to  get  him  to 
make  them  an  allowance, — nay,  would  I not  take  a letter 
to  him,  or  at  least  frank  one  to  him?  I offered  to  do  so. 
She  asked  me  where  I lived?  and  where  she  could  send  me 
the  letter.  I avoided  giving  her  my  address,  and  engaged 
to  call  for  the  letter  on  the  evening  of  the  next  day. 

She  then  recounted  to  me  her  pitiable  situation.  She  was 
I a widow,  wdth  three  children  : one  girl  was  being  educated 
in  a nunnery,  the  other  was  here  at  home,  and  her  son  was 
' gone  to  school.  Besides  these  three  children,  she  had  her 
1 mother  on  her  hands,  for  whose  support  she  must  provide  ; 

' and  besides  all  this,  out  of  Christian  love  she  had  taken  into 


302 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


her  house  the  unfortunate  sick  person,  — and  thus  augmented 
her  miseries.  All  her  industry  scarcelj*  sufficed  to  furnish 
herself  and  children  with  the  very  barest  necessaries.  She 
well  knew  that  God  would  reward  all  such  good  works  ; still, 
she  could  not  help  sighing  beneath  the  heavy  burden  she  had 
so  long  borne. 

The  young  people  joined  in  the  convei’sation,  and  the 
dialogue  became  livelier.  While  I was  speaking  to  the 
others,  I heard  the  old  woman  ask  her  daughter  if  I belonged 
to  their  holy  religion.  I was  able  to  observe  that  the  daugh- 
ter skilfully  parried  the  question  bj"  assuring  her  mother  (as 
well  as  I could  make  out  her  words)  that  the  stranger  ap- 
peared well  disposed  towards  them  ; and  that  it  was  not 
proper  to  question  any  one  all  at  once  on  this  point. 

When  they  heard  that  I was  soon  to  depart  from  Palermo, 
they  became  still  more  urgent,  and  entreated  me  to  call 
again  at  all  events : they  especially  praised  the  heavenly 
day  of  St.  Rosalie’s  festival,  the  like  of  which  was  not  to  be 
seen  or  enjoyed  in  the  world. 

My  guide,  who  for  a long  while  had  been  wishing  to  get 
away,  at  last  by  his  signs  put  an  end  to  our  talk ; and  I 
promised  to  come  on  the  evening  of  the  next  day,  and  fetch 
the  letter.  My  guide  expressed  his  satisfaction  that  all  had 
gone  off  so  well,  and  we  parted,  well  satisfied  with  each  other,  j 

Y’ou  may  imagine  what  impression  this  poor,  pious,  and 
well-disposed  familj’  made  upon  me.  My  curiosity  was  sat- 
isfied ; but  their  natural  and  pleasing  behavior  had  excited 
my  sympath}',  and  reflection  only  confirmed  my  good  will  in  i 
their  favor. 

But  then  some  anxiety  soon  arose  in  my  mind  about  to- 
morrow. It  was  only  natural  that  my  visit,  which  at  fix’s t 
had  so  charmed  them,  would,  after  my  departure,  be  talked 
and  thought  over  by  them.  From  the  pedigree,  I was  aware 
that  others  of  the  family  were  still  living.  Nothing  could 
be  more  natural  than  that  they  should  call  in  their  friends  to 
consult  them  ou  all  they  had  been  so  astonished  to  hear  from  i 
me  the  day  before.  I had  gained  my  object,  aud  now  it  ;! 
only  remained  for  me  to  contrive  to  bring  this  adventure  to  i . 
a favorable  issue.  I therefore  set  off  the  next  day.  aud  I 
arrived  at  their  house  just  after  their  dinner.  They  were  : i 
surprised  to  see  me  so  earh’.  The  letter,  they  told  me  ' ■ 
was  not  yet  ready  ; and  some  of  their  relatives  wished  to  | 
make  my  acquaintauce,  and  they  would  be  there  towards  I 
evening. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


303 


I replied  that  I was  to  depart  early  in  the  morning ; that 
I had  3'et  some  visits  to  make,  and  had  also  to  pack  up  ; and 
that  I had  determined  to  come  earlier  than  I had  promised 
rather  than  not  come  at  all. 

During  this  conversation  the  son  entered,  whom  I had  not 
seen  the  day  before.  In  form  and  countenance  he  resem- 
bled his  sister.  He  had  brought  with  him  the  letter  I was 
to  take.  As  usual  in  these  parts,  it  had  been  written  by 
one  of  the  public  notaries.  The  youth,  who  was  of  a quiet, 
sad,  and  modest  disposition,  inquired  about  his  uncle,  asked 
about  his  riches  and  expenditure,  and  added,  “ How  could 
he  forget  his  family  so  long  ? It  would  be  the  greatest  hap- 
piness to  us,”  he  continued,  “if  he  would  onlj'  come  back 
and  help  us  ; ” but  he  further  asked,  “ How  came  he  to  tell 
you  that  he  had  relations  in  Palermo?  It  is  said  that  he 
disowns  us  everywhere,  and  gives  himself  out  to  be  of  high 
birth.”  These  questions,  to  which  my  guide’s  want  of  fore- 
sight had,  on  our  first  visit,  given  rise,  I contrived  to  satisfy, 
by  making  it  appear  possible,  that,  although  his  uncle  might 
have  many  reasons  for  concealing  his  origin  from  the  public, 
he  would,  nevertheless,  make  no  secret  of  it  to  his  friends 
and  familiar  acquaintances. 

His  sister,  who  had  stepped  forward  during  this  conversa- 
tion, and  taken  courage  from  the  presence  of  her  brother, 
and  probably,  also,  from  the  absence  of  yesterday’s  friend, 
began  now  to  speak.  Her  manner  was  very  pretty  and 
lively.  She  earnestly  begged  me,  when  I wrote  to  her  uncle, 
to  commend  her  to  him ; and  not  less  earnestly,  also,  to 
come  back,  when  I had  finished  my  tour  through  the  king- 
dom of  Sicily,  and  to  attend  with  them  the  festivities  of 
St.  Rosalie. 

The  mother  joined  her  voice. to  that  of  her  children. 
“Signor,”  she  exclaimed,  “although  it  does  not  in  propriety 
become  me,  who  have  a grown-up  daughter,  to  invite  strange 
men  to  my  house,  — and  one  ought  to  guard  not  only  against 
the  danger  itself,  but  even  against  evil  tongues,  — still  j'ou, 
I can  assure  you,  will  be  heartity  welcome  whenever  you 
return  to  our  city.” 

“Yes!  yes!”  cried  the  children,  “we  will  guide  the 
signor  throughout  the  festival ; we  will  show  him  every 
thing ; we  will  place  him  on  the  scaffolding  from  which  you 
have  the  best  view  of  the  festivities.  How  delighted  will 
he  be  with  the  great  car,  and  especially  with  the  splendid 
illuminations ! ” 


304 


LETTERS  FRO:\[  ITALY. 


In  the  mean  while,  the  grandmother  had  read  the  letter  j' 
over  and  over  again.  When  she  was  told  that  I wished  to  |c 
take  my  leave,  she  rose  and  delivered  to  me  the  folded  paper,  i' 
“Say  to  my  son,”  she  said,  with  a noble  vivacit}'.  not  to  \ 
say  enthusiasm,  “ tell  m}’  son  how  happy  the  news  you  have  i 
brought  me  of  him  has  made  us.  Say  to  mj'  son  that  I thus 
fold  him  to  my  heart  ” (here  she  stretched  out  her  arms  and 
again  closed  them  over  her  bosom)  ; “that  every  day  in  i 
prayer  I supplicate  God  and  our  blessed  Lady  for  him  : that  i 
I give  my  blessing  to  him  and  to  his  wife,  and  that  I have  I 
no  wish  but,  before  I die,  to  see  him  once  more  with  these  , 
eyes,  which  have  shed  so  many  tears  on  his  account.” 

The  peculiar  elegance  of  the  Italian  favored  the  choice 
and  the  noble  arrangement  of  her  words,  which,  moreover, 
were  accompanied  with  those  very  lively  gestures,  by  which 
this  people  usually  give  an  incredible  charm  to  every  thing 
thej'  say.  Not  unmoved,  I took  m3'  leave.  The3'  all  held 
out  their  hands  to  me : the  children  even  accompanied  me 
to  the  door,  and  while  I descended  the  steps,  ran  to  the  1 
balcon}’  of  the  window,  which  opened  from  the  kitchen  into  i 
the  street,  called  after  me,  nodded  them  adieus,  and  repeat-  | 
edl}’  cried  out  to  me  not  to  forget  to  come  again  and  see  I 
them.  The}^  were  still  standing  on  the  balcon}',  when  I 
turned  the  corner. 

I need  not  say  that  the  interest  I took  in  this  family  ex-  : 
cited  in  me  the  liveliest  desire  to  be  useful  to  them,  and  to 
help  them  in  their  great  need.  Through  me  they  were  now  a 
second  time  deceived  ; and  hopes  of  assistance,  which  they  had  > 
no  previous  expectation  of,  had  been  again  raised,  through 
the  curiosity  of  a son  of  the  North,  only  to  be  disappointed. 

My  first  intention  was  to  pa}'  them,  before  my  departure, 
those  fourteen  oncie  which  the  fugitive  had  borrowed  of  them 
and  not  repaid,  and,  b}^  expressing  a hope  that  he  would  repay 
me,  to  conceal  from  them  the  fact  of  its  being  a gift  from 
me.  When,  however,  I got  home,  casting  up  my  accounts 
and  looking  over  m3'  cash  and  bills,  I found,  that,  in  a country 
where,  from  the  want  of  communication,  distance  is  infiu- 
itel}'  magnified,  I should  perhaps  place  m3'self  in  a strait,  if 
I attempted  to  make  amends  for  the  dishonesty  of  a rogue 
by  an  act  of  mere  good  natute. 

The  subsequent  issue  of  this  affam  may  as  well  be  here 
introduced. 

I set  off  from  Palermo,  and  never  came  back  to  it ; but 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


305 


notwithstanding  the  great  distance  of  my  Sicilian  and  Italian 
travels,  my  soul  never  lost  the  impression  which  the  inter- 
view with  this  family  had  left  upon  it. 

I returned  to  my  native  land ; and  the  letter  of  the  old 
widow,  turning  up  among  the  many  other  papers  which  had 
come  with  it  from  Naples  by  sea,  gave  me  occasion  to  speak 
of  this  and  other  adventures. 

Below  is  a translation  of  this  letter,  in  which  I have  pur- 
posely allowed  the  peculiarities  of  the  original  to  appear. 

“ My  Dearest  Son, 

“ On  the  16th  April,  178*7,  I received  tidings  of  you  through  Mr. 
Wilton,  and  I cannot  express  to  you  how  consoling  it  was  to  me;  for 
ever  since  you  removed  from  France  I have  been  unable  to  hear  any 
tidings  of  you. 

“My  dear  son,  I entreat  you  not  to  forget  me,  for  I am  very 
poor,  and  deserted  by  all  my  relations  but  my  daughter,  and  your 
sister  Maria  Giovanna,  in  whose  house  I am  living.  She  cannot  afford 
to  supply  all  my  wants,  but  she  does  what  she  can.  She  is  a widow, 
with  three  children:  one  daughter  is  in  the  nunnery  of  St.  Catherine, 
the  other  two  children  are  at  home  with  her. 

“I  repeat,  my  dear  son,  my  entreaty.  Send  me  just  enough  to 
provide  for  my  necessities;  for  I have  not  even  the  necessary  articles 
of  clothing  to  discharge  the  duties  of  a Catholic,  for  my  mantle  and 
outer  garments  are  perfectly  in  rags. 

“ If  you  send  me  any  thing,  or  even  write  me  merely  a letter,  do 
not  send  by  post,  but  by  sea ; for  Don  Matteo,  my  brother  (Bracconeri), 
is  the  postmaster. 

“ My  dear  son,  I entreat  you  to  provide  me  with  a tari  a day,  in 
order  that  your  sister  may,  in  some  measure,  be  relieved  of  the  burthen 
I am  to  her  at  present  and  that  I may  not  perish  from  want.  Remem- 
ber the  divine  command,  and  help  a poor  mother,  who  is  reduced  to 
the  utmost  extremity.  I give  you  my  blessing,  and  press  to  my  heart 
both  thee  and  Donna  Lorenza,  thy  wife. 

“Your  sister  embraces  you  from  her  heart,  and  her  children  kiss 
your  hands. 

“ Your  mother,  who  dearly  loves  you,  and  presses  you  to  her  heart. 

“ Felice  Balsamo. 

“Palermo,  April  18,  1787.” 

Some  worthy  and  exalted  persons,  before  whom  I laid  this 
document,  together  with  the  whole  story,  shared  my  emotions, 
and  enabled  me  to  discharge  my  debt  to  this  unhappy  famil}^ 
and  to  remit  them  a sum  which  they  received  towards  the 
end  of  the  year  1787.  Of  the  effect  it  had,  the  following 
letter  is  evidence. 

“Palermo,  December  25,  1787. 

“ Dear  and  faithful  Brother, 

“Dearest  Son, 

“The  joy  wliich  we  have  had  in  hearing  that  you  are  in  good 
health  and  circumstances,  we  cannot  express  by  any  writing.  By 
sending  them  this  little  assistance,  you  have  tilled  with  the  greatest 


306 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


joy  and  delight  a mother  and  a sister  who  are  abandoned  by  all,  and 
have  to  provide  for  two  daughters  and  a son.  For,  after  that  Mr.  .Jacob 
Joff,  an  English  merchant,  had  taken  great  pains  to  find  out  the  Donna 
Giuseppe  Maria  Capitummino  (by  birth  Balsamo),  in  consequence  of 
my  being  commonly  known  merely  as  Marana  Capitummino,  he  found 
us  at  last  in  a little  tenement,  where  we  live  on  a corresponding  scale, 
lie  informed  us  that  you  had  ordered  a sum  of  money  to  be  paid  us, 
and  that  he  had  a receipt,  which  I,  your  sister,  must  sign,  — which  was 
accordingiy  done;  for  he  immediately  put  the  money  in  our  hands, 
and  the  favorable  rate  of  the  exchange  has  brought  us  a little  further 
gain. 

“Now,  think  with  what  delight  we  must  have  received  this  sum, 
at  a time  when  Christmas  Day  was  just  at  hand,  and  we  had  no  hope 
of  being  helped  to  spend  it  with  its  usual  festivity. 

“ The  Incarnate  Saviour  has  moved  your  heart  to  send  us  this 
money,  which  has  served  not  only  to  appease  our  hunger,  but  actually 
to  clothe  us,  when  we  were  in  want  of  every  thing. 

“It  would  give  iis  the  greatest  gratification  possible  if  you  would 
gratify  our  wish  to  see  you  once  more,  — especially  mine,  your  mother, 
who  never  cease  to  bewail  my  separation  from  an  only  son,  whom  I 
would  much  wish  to  see  again  before  I die. 

“ But  if,  owing  to  circumstances,  this  cannot  be,  still  do  not  neglect 
to  come  to  the  aid  of  my  misery,  especialiy  as  you  have  discovered  so 
excellent  a channel  of  communication,  and  so  honest  and  exact  a 
merchant,  who,  when  we  knew  nothing  about  it,  and  when  he  had 
the  money  entirely  in  his  own  power,  has  honestly  sought  us  out  and 
faithfully  paid  over  to  us  the  sum  you  remitted. 

“With  you  that  perhaps  will  not  signifj'  much.  To  us,  however, 
every  help  is  a treasure.  Your  sister  has  two  grown  up  daughters,  and 
her  son  also  requires  a little  help.  You  know  that  she  has  nothing  in 
the  world;  and  what  a good  act  you  will  perfonn  by  sending  her 
enough  to  furnish  them  all  with  a suitable  outfit. 

“May  God  preserve  you  in  health!  We  invoke  him  in  gratitude, 
and  pray  that  he  m.ay  still  continue  the  prosperity  you  have  hitherto 
enjoyed,  and  that  he  may  move  your  heart  to  keep  us  in  remem- 
brance. In  his  name  I bless  you  and  your  wife,  as  a most  affectionate 
mother,  — and  I,  your  sister,  embrace  you;  and  so  does  your  nephew, 
Giuseppe  (Bracconeri),  who  wrote  this  letter.  We  all  pray  for  your 
prosperity,  as  do  also  my  two  sisters,  Antonia  and  Theresa. 

“ We  embrace  you,  and  are, 

“Your  sister,  who  loves  you, 

“ Giuseppe-Mauia,  CAPiTUiiJiixo,  and  Bai.samo. 

“Your  inother,  who  loves  and  blesses  you, 
who  blesses  you  every  hour, 

“ Felice  Balsamo,  aud  Bkaccoxeri.” 


The  signatures  appended  to  the  letter  are  in  their  own 
handwriting. 

I had  caused  the  money  to  be  paid  to  them  without  send- 
ing an 3’  letter,  or  intimation  whence  it  came.  This  makes 
their  mistake  the  more  natural,  and  their  future  hopes  the 
more  proliable. 

Now,  that  the}"  have  been  informed  of  the  arrest  aud  im* 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


307 


prisonment  of  their  relutive,  I feel  at  liberty  to  explain  mat- 
ters to  them,  and  to  do  something  for  their  consolation.  I 
have  still  a gmall  sum  for  them  in  m}^  hands,  which  I shall 
remit  to  them,  and  profit  hj-  the  opportunity  to  explain  the 
true  state  of  the  matter.  Should  any  of  my  friends,  should 
any  of  my  I'ich  and  noble  countrymen,  be  disposed  to  enlarge, 
by  their  contributions,  the  sum  I have  already  in  my  hands, 
I would  exhort  them  in  that  case  to  forward  their  kind  gifts 
to  me  before  Michaelmas  Day,  in  order  to  share  the  gratitude, 
and  to  be  rewarded  with  the  happiness,  of  a deseiwing  family, 
out  of  which  has  proceeded  one  of  the  most  singular  monsters 
that  has  appeared  in  this  century. 

I shall  not  fail  to  make  known  the  further  course  of  this 
story,  and  to  give  an  account  of  the  state  in  which  my  next 
remittance  finds  the  family  ; and  perhaps,  also,  I shall  add 
some  remarks  which  this  matter  induced  me  to  make,  which, 
liowever,  I withhold  at  present,  in  order  not  to  disturb  my 
reader’s  first  impressions. 


Paleemo, 

Sunday,  April  15,  1787. 

Towards  evening  I paid  a visit  to  my  friend  the  shopkeeper, 
to  ask  him  how  he  thought  the  festival  was  likely  to  pass  off ; 
for  to-morrow  there  is  to  be  a solemn  procession  through  the 
city,  and  the  viceroy  is  to  accompany  the  host  on  foot.  The 
least  wind  will  envelop  both  man  and  the  sacred  symbols  in 
a thick  cloud  of  dust. 

With  much  humor  he  replied,  “ In  Palermo,  the  people  look 
for  nothing  more  confidently  than  for  a miracle.  ’ Often 
before  now,  on  such  occasions,  a violent  passing  shower  had 
fallen  and  cleansed  the  streets,  partially  at  least,  so  as  to 
make  a clean  road  for  the  procession.  On  this  occasion  a 
similar  hope  was  entertained,  and  not  without  cause,  for  the 
sky  was  overcast,  and  promised  rain  during  the  night. 

Palermo, 

Sunday,  April  15,  1787. 

And  so  it  has  actually  turned  out ! During  the  night  the 
most  violent  shower  has  fallen.  In  the  morning  I set  out 
very  early  in  order  to  be  an  eye-witness  of  the  marvel.  The 
stream  of  rain-w'ater  pent  up  between  the  two  raised  pave- 
ments, had  carried  the  lightest  of  the  rubbish  down  the 
inclined  street,  either  into  the  sea  or  into  such  of  the  sewers 
as  were  not  stopped  up,  while  the  grosser  and  heavier  dung 


308 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


was  diiven  from  spot  to  spot.  In  this  a singular  meander-  I 
ing  line  of  cleanliness  was  marked  out  along  the  streets.  On  a 
the  morning,  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  men  weue  to  be  seen  |i' 
with  brooms  and  shovels,  busily  enlarging  this  clear  space,  li 
and  in  order  to  connect  it  where  it  was  interrupted  by  the  3 
mire  ; and  throwing  the  still  remaining  impurities  now  to  this  i|| 
side,  now  to  that.  By  this  means  when  the  procession  started, 
it  found  a clear  serpentine  walk  prepared  for  it  through  the  * 
mud,  and  so  both  the  long-robed  priests  and  the  neat-booted  | 
nobles,  with  the  viceroy  at  their  head,  were  able  to  proceed  ( 
on  their  way  unhindered  and  imsplashed.  > 

I thought  of  the  children  of  Israel  passing  through  the  < 
waters  on  the  dry  path  prepared  for  them  b}'  the  hand  of  the  i 
angel ; and  this  remembrance  served  to  ennoble  what  other- 
wise  would  have  been  a revolting  sight,  — to  see  these  devout 
and  noble  peers  parading  their  devotions  along  an  alley  . 
flanked  on  each  side  by  heaps  of  mud. 

On  the  pavement  there  was  now,  as  always,  clean  walking  ; . 

but  in  the  more  retired  parts  of  the  city,  whither  we  were  this  . 
day  carried  in  pursuance  of  our  intention  of  visiting  the 
quarters  we  had  hitherto  neglected,  it  was  almost  unpossible 
to  get  along,  although  even  here  the  sweeping  and  piling  of 
the  filth  was  by  no  means  neglected. 

The  festival  gave  occasion  to  our  visiting  the  principal  J 
church  of  the  city  and  observing  its  cunosities.  Being  once  < 
on  the  move,  we  took  a round  of  all  the  other  public  edifices. 
IVe  were  much  pleased  with  a Moorish  building,  which  is  in  ] 
excellent  preservation,  — not  very  large,  but  the  rooms  beau-  I 
tiful,  broad,  and  well  proportioned,  and  in  excellent  keeping  | 
with  the  whole  pile.  It  is  not  perhaps  suited  for  a northern  I 
climate,  but  in  a southern  land  a most  agreeable  residence.  ; 
Architects  may  perhaps  some  day  furnish  us  with  a plan  and  i) 
elevation  of  it.  j 

We  also  saw,  in  most  unsuitable  situations,  various  remains  -i 
of  ancient  marble  statues,  which,  however,  we  had  not  i 
patience  to  decipher. 


Palermo,  April  16,  1787. 

As  we  are  obliged  to  anticipate  our  speedy  departure  from  ; 
this  paradise,  I hoped  to-day  to  spend  a thorough  holiday  by 
sitting  in  the  public  gardens,  and,  after  studying  the  task  I 
had  set  myself  out  of  the  Odyssey,  taking  a walk  tlmough 
the  valley,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  of  St.  Rosalie,  meditat- 
ing still  further  on  my  sketch  of  Nausicaa,  and  there  trying  : 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


309 


whether  this  subject  is  susceptible  of  a dramatic  form.  All 
this  I have  managed,  if  not  with  perfect  success,  jmt  cer- 
tainly much  to  my  satisfaction.  I made  out  the  plan,  and 
could  not  abstain  from  sketching  some  portions  of  it  which 
appeared  to  me  most  interesting,  and  tried  to  work  them  out. 

Palermo, 

Tuesday,  April  17,  1787. 

It  is  downright  misery  to  be  pursued  and  hunted  by  many 
spirits  ! Yesterday  I set  out  early  for  the  public  gardens, 
with  a firm  and  calm  resolve  to  realize  some  of  my  poetical 
dreams  ; but  before  I got  within  sight  of  them,  another 
spectre  which  has  been  following  me  these  last  few  days  got 
hold  of  me.  Many  plants  which  hitherto  I had  been  used  to 
see  only  in  pots  and  tubs,  or  under  glass  frames,  stand  here, 
fresh  and  joyous,  beneath  the  open  sky ; and,  as  they  here 
completely  fulfil  their  destination,  their  natures  and  charac- 
ters became  more  plain  and  evident  to  me.  In  presence  of 
so  many  new  and  renovated  forms,  my  old  fancy  occurred  to 
me  again  : Might  not  I discover  the  primordial  plant  among 
all  these  numerous  specimens  ? Some  such  there  must  be  ! 
For,  otherwise,  how  am  I able  at  once  to  determine  that  this 
or  that  form  is  a plant,  unless  they  are  all  formed  after  one 
original  t}'pe  ? I busied  myself,  therefore,  with  examining 
M'herein  the  many  varying  shapes  differed  from  each  other. 
And  in  every  case  I found  them  all  to  be  more  similar  than 
dissimilar,  and  attempted  to  apply  ni}'  botanical  terminology. 
That  went  on  well  enough : still,  I was  not  satisfied,  but  felt 
annoyed  that  it  did  not  lead  farther.  My  pet  poetical  pur- 
pose was  obstructed : the  gardens  of  Antinous  all  vanished, 
— a real  garden  of  the  world  had  taken  their  place.  Why 
is  it  that  we  moderns  have  so  little  concentration  of  mind  ? 
Why  is  it  that  we  are  thus  tempted  to  make  requisitions 
which  we  can  neither  exact  nor  fulfil  ? 


' Alcamo, 

Wednesday,  April  18,  1787. 

At  an  early  hour  we  rode  out  of  Palermo.  Kniep  and  the 
vetturino  showed  their  skill  in  packing  the  carriage  inside 
and  out.  We  drove  slowly  along  the  excellent  road,  with 
which  we  had  previously  become  acquainted  during  our  visit 
to  Sail  Martino,  and  once  more  admired  one  of  the  magnifi- 
cent fountains  on  the  way.  At  one  of  these  our  driver 
stopped  to  supply  himself  with  water,  according  to  the  tern- 


310 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


perate  hal)its  of  this  country.  He  had,  at  starting,  hung  to 
the  traces  a small  wine-cask,  such  as  our  market-women  use  ; 
and  it  seemed  to  us  to  hold  wine  enough  for  several  days. 
We  were,  therefore,  not  a little  surprised  when  he  made  for 
one  of  the  many  conduit-pipes,  took  the  plug  out  of  his  cask, 
and  let  the  water  run  into  it.  With  true  German  amazement, 
we  asked  him  what  he  was  about?  was  not  the  cask  full  of 
wine?  To  all  which  he  replied  with  great  coolness,  he  had 
left  a third  of  it  empty  ; and  as  no  one  in  this  country  drank 
unmixed  wine,  it  was  better  to  mix  it  at  once  in  a lar^e 
quantity,  as  then  the  liquids  combined  better ; and,  besides, 
you  were  not  sure  of  finding  water  everywhei’e.  During  this 
conversation  the  cask  was  filled,  and  we  had  to  put  up  with 
this  ancient  and  Oriental  wedding  custom. 

And  now  as  we  reached  the  heights  be}’ond  Mon  Reale, 
we  saw  wonderfully  beautiful  districts,  but  tilled  in  tradi- 
tional, rather  than  in  a true  economical  style.  On  the  right, 
the  eye  reached  the  sea,  where,  between  singular-shaped 
headlands,  and  beyond  a shore  here  covered  with,  and  there 
destitute  of,  trees,  it  caught  a smooth  and  level  horizon,  per- 
fectly calm,  and  forming  a glorious  contrast  with  the  wild 
and  rugged  limestone  rocks.  Kniep  did  not  fail  to  make 
miniature  outlines  of  several  of  them. 

We  are  at  present  in  Alcamo,  a quiet  and  clean  little 
town,  whose  well-conducted  inn  is  highly  to  be  commended 
as  an  excellent  establishment,  especially  as  it  is  most  con- 
veniently situated  for  those  who  come  to  see  the  temple  of 
Segeste,  which  has  a very  lonely  situation,  out  of  the  direct 
road. 


Alca-mo, 

Thursday,  April  19,  1787. 

Our  agreeable  dwelling  in  this  quiet  town  among  the 
mountains  has  so  charmed  us  that  we  have  determined  to 
pass  a whole  day  here.  We  may  then,  before  any  thing  else, 
speak  of  our  yesterda}'’s  adventures.  In  one  of  my  earlier 
letters,  I questioned  the  originality  of  Prince  Pallagonia’s 
bad  taste.  He  has  had  forerunners,  and  can  adduce  many  a 
precedent.  On  the  road  towards  IMon  Reale  stand  two  mon- 
strosities, beside  a fountain  with  some  vases  on  a balustrade, 
so  utterh'  repugnant  to  good  taste  that  one  would  suppose 
they  must  have  been  placed  there  by  the  prince  himself. 

After  passing  Mon  Reale,  we  left  behind  us  the  beautiful 
road,  and  got  into  the  rugged  mountain  country.  Here  some 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


311 


rocks  appeared  on  the  crown  of  the  road,  which,  judging 
from  their  gravity  and  metallic  incrustations,  I took  to  be 
ironstone.  Every  level  spot  is  cultivated,  and  is  more  or  less 
prolific.  The  limestone  in  these  parts  had  a reddish  hue, 
and  all  the  ]:)ulverized  earth  is  of  the  same  color.  This  red 
argillaceous  and  calcareous  earth  extends  over  a great  space. 
The  subsoil  is  hard,  no  sand  underneath  ; but  it  produces  ex- 
cellent wheat.  We  noticed  old,  very  strong,  but  stumpy 
olive-trees. 

Under  the  shelter  of  an  airy  room,  which  has  been  built 
as  an  addition  to  the  wretched  inn,  we  refreshed  ourselves 
with  a temperate  luncheon.  Dogs  eagerly  gobbled  up  the 
skins  of  our  sausages,  but  a beggar-boy  drove  them  off.  He 
was  feasting  with  a wonderful  appetite  on  the  parings  of  the 
apples  we  were  eating,  when  he  in  his  turn  was  driven  away 
by  an  old  beggar.  Want  of  work  is  here  felt  everywhere. 
In  a ragged  toga,  the  old  beggar  was  glad  to  get  a job  as 
house-servant  or  waiter.  Thus  I had  formerly  observed  that 
whenever  a landlord  was  asked  for  any  thing  which  he  had 
not  at  the  moment  in  the  house,  he  would  send  a beggar  to 
the  shop  for  it. 

However,  we  are  pretty  well  provided  against  all  such 
sorry  attendance : for  our  vetturiuo  is  an  excellent  fellow ; 
he  is  ready  as  ostler,  cicerone,  guard,  courier,  cook,  and 
every  thing. 

On  the  higher  hills  j’on  find  everywhere  the  olive,  the 
caruba,  and  the  ash.  Their  system  of  farming  is  also  spread 
over  three  years,  — beans,  corn,  fallow,  — in  which  mode  of 
culture  the  people  say  the  dung  does  more  marvels  than  all 
the  saints.  The  grape-stock  is  kept  down  very  low. 

Alcamo  is  gloriously  situated  on  a height,  at  a tolerable 
distance  from  a bay  of  the  sea.  The  magnificence  of  the 
country  quite  enchanted  us.  Lofty  rocks,  with  deep  valleys 
at  their  feet,  but  withal  wide  open  spaces,  and  great  variety. 
Beyond  Mon  Reale  you  look  upon  a beautiful  double  valley, 
in  the  centre  of  which  a hilly  ridge  again  raises  itself.  The 
fruitful  fields  lie  green  and  quiet .-  but  on  the  broad  roadway 
the  wild  bushes  and  shrubs  are  brilliant  with  flowers, — the 
broom,  one  mass  of  yellow,  covered  with  its  papilionaceous 
blossoms,  and  not  a single  green  leaf  to  be  seen  ; the  white- 
thorn, cluster  on  cluster  ; the  aloes  are  rising  high,  and  prom- 
ising to  flower ; a rich  tapestry  of  an  amaranthine-red  clover, 
of  orchids,  and  the  little  Alpine  roses ; hyacinths,  with  un- 
opened bells  ; asphodels,  and  other  wild  flowers. 


312 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


The  streams  which  descend  from  Mount  Segeste  leave  de* 
posits,  not  only  of  limestone,  but  also  of  pebbles  of  hornstone. 
They  are  veiy  compact,  dark  blue,  yellow,  red,  and  brown, 
of  various  shades.  I also  found  complete  loads  of  horn,  or 
firestone,  in  the  limestone  rocks,  edged  with  lime.  Of  such 
gravel  one  finds  whole  hills  just  before  one  gets  to  Alcamo. 

Segeste,  April  20,  1787. 

The  temple  of  Segeste  was  never  finished.  The  ground 
around  it  was  never  even  levelled,  the  space  onlv  being 
smoothed  on  which  the  peristyle  was  to  stand.  For,  in 
several  places,  the  steps  are  from  nine  to  ten  feet  in  the 
ground  ; and  there  is  no  hill  near,  from  which  the  stone  or 
mould  could  have  fallen.  Besides,  the  stones  lie  in  their 
natural  position,  and  no  ruins  are  found  near  them. 

The  columns  are  all  standing:  two  which  had  fallen,  have 
very  recently  been  raised  again.  How  far  the  columns  rested 
on  a socle  is  hard  to  say  ; and,  without  an  engraving,  it  is  dif- 
ficult to  give  an  idea  of  their  present  state.  At  some  points 
it  would  seem  as  if  the  pillars  rested  on  the  fourth  step.  In 
that  case,  to  enter  the  temple  3-011  would  have  to  go  down  a 
step.  In  other  places,  however,  the  uppermost  step  is  cut 
through,  and  then  it  looks  as  if  the  columns  had  rested  on 
bases  ; and  then  again  these  spaces  have  been  filled  up.  and 
so  we  have  once  more  the  first  case.  An  architect  is  neces- 
saiT  to  detej’inine  this  point. 

The  sides  have  twelve  columns,  not  reckoning  the  corner 
ones  ; the  back  and  front  six,  including  them.  The  rollers 
on  which  the  stones  were  moved  along,  still  lie  around  you  on 
the  steps.  The}’  have  been  left,  in  order  to  indicate  that  the 
temple  was  unfinished.  But  the  strongest  evidence  of  this 
fact  is  the  floor.  In  some  spots  (along  the  sides)  the  pave- 
ment is  laid  down.  In  the  middle,  however,  the  red  lime- 
stone rock  still  projects  higher  than  the  level  of  the  floor  as 
partiall}’  laid  : the  flooring,  therefore,  cannot  ever  have  been 
finished.  Nor  is  there  a trace  of  an  inner  temple.  Still 
less  can  the  temple  have  ever  been  overlaid  with  stucco : but 
that  it  was  intended  to  do  so,  we  ma}-  infer  from  the  fact 
that  the  abaci  of  the  capitals  have  projecting  points,  probablv 
for  the  purpose  of  holding  the  plaster.  The  whole  is  built 
of  a limestone,  veiT  similar  to  the  travertine  : onlv  it  is  now 
much  fretted.  The  restoration  which  was  carried  on  in  1781 
has  done  much  good  to  the  building.  The  cutting  of  ti:e 
stone  with  which  the  parts  have  been  reconnected,  is  simple, 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


313 


but  beautiful.  The  large  blocks  standing  by  themselves, 
which  are  inentioiiecl  by  Riedesel,  I could  not  find : probably 
they  were  used  for  the  restoration  of  the  columns. 

The  site  of  the  temple  is  singular.  At  the  highest  end  of 
a broad  and  long  valley,  it  stands  on  an  isolated  hill : sur- 
rounded, however,  on  all  sides  b}’  cliffs,  it  commands  a very 
distant  and  extensive  view  of  the  land,  but  it  takes  in  only 
just  a corner  of  the  sea.  The  district  reposes  in  a sort  of 
melancholy  fertility,  — everywhere  well  cultivated,  but  scarce 
a dwelling  to  be  seen.  Flowering  thistles  were  swarming 
with  countless  butterflies  ; wild  fennel  stood  here  from  eight 
to  nine  feet  high,  dry  and  withered,  of  the  last  year’s  growth, 
but  so  rich,  and  in  such  seeming  order,  that  one  might  almost 
take  it  to  be  an  old  nursery-ground ; a shrill  wind  whistled 
through  the  columns  as  if  through  a wood  ; and  screaming 
birds  of  prey  hovered  around  the  pediments. 

The  wearisomeness  of  winding  through  the  insignificant 
ruins  of  a theatre  took  awa}'^  from  us  all  the  pleasures  we 
might  otherwise  have  had  in  visiting  the  remains  of  the  an- 
cient citju  At  the  foot  of  the  temple,  v/e  found  large  pieces 
of  the  hornstone.  Indeed,  the  road  to  Alcamo  is  composed 
of  vast  quantities  of  pebbles  of  the  same  formation.  From 
the  road  a portion  of  a gravelly  earth  passes  into  the  soil,  by 
which  means  it  is  rendered  looser.  In  some  fennel  of  this 
year’s  growth,  I observed  the  difference  of  the  lower  and 
upper  leaves  : it  is  still  the  same  organization  that  develops 
multip'licity  out  of  unity.  They  are  most  industrious  weed- 
ers  in  these  parts.  Just  as  beaters  go  through  a wood  for 
game,  so  here  they  go  through  the  fields  weeding.  I have 
actually  seen  some  insects  here.  In  Palermo,  however,  I 
saw  nothing  but  worms,  lizards,  leeches,  and  snakes,  though 
not  more  finely  colored  than  with  us  ; indeed,  they  are  mostly 
all  gray. 


- Castel  Vetrako, 
Saturday,  April  21,  1787. 

From  Alcamo  to  Castel  Vetrano  you  come  on  the  lime- 
stone, after  crossing  some  hills  of  gravel.  Between  precipi- 
tous and  barren  limestone  mountains,  lie  wide,  unclulating 
vallej's,  everywhere  tilled,  with  scarcely  a tree  to  be  seen. 
The  gravelly  hills  are  full  of  large  bowlders,  giving  signs  of 
ancient  inundations  of  the  sea.  The  soil  is  better  mixed,  and 
lighter,  than  any  we  have  hitherto  seen,  in  consequence  of  its 
containing  some  sand.  Leaving  Salenii  about  fifteen  miles 


314 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


to  our  right,  we  came  upon  liills  of  g3’psum,  lying  on  the 
limestone.  The  soil  appears,  as  we  proceed,  to  be  better 
and  more  richly  compounded.  In  the  distance  you  catch  a 
peep  of  the  Western  sea.  In  the  foreground  the  country  is 
everywhere  hilly.  We  found  the  fig-trees  just  budding  ; but 
what  most  excited  our  delight  and  wonder  were  endless 
masses  of  flowers,  which  had  encroached  on  the  broad  road,  ^ 
and  flourish  in  large,  variegated  patches.  Closelj-  bordering  I 
on  each  other,  the  several  sorts,  nevertheless,  keep  them-  I; 
selves  apart,  and  recur  at  regular  intervals,  — the  most  beau-  : i 
tiful  convolvuluses,  hibiscuses,  and  mallows,  various  kinds  li 
of  trefoil,  here  and  there  the  garlic,  and  the  galega-ges-  • 
tranche.  On  horseback  you  may  ride  through  this  varied  ! 
tapestry  by  following  the  numljeiless  and  ever-crossing  nar-  • 
row  paths  which  run  through  it.  Here  and  there  }"Ou  see, 
feeding,  fine  red-brown  cattle,  very  clean-limbed,  and  with  i 
short  horns  of  an  extremely  elegant  form. 

The  mountains  to  the  noith-east  stand  all  in  a line.  A 
single  peak,  Cuniglione,  rises  boldly  from  the  midst  of  them.  , 

The  gravelly  hills  have  but  few  streams : very  little  rain  I 

seems  to  fall  liere  : we  did  not  find  a single  gully  giving  evi- 
dence of  having  ever  overflowed.  I 

In  the  night  I met  with  a singular  incident.  Quite  worn  I 
out,  we  had  thrown  ourselves  on  our  beds  in  anv  thing  but  a 
very  elegant  room.  In  the  middle  of  the  night  I saw  above 
me  a most  agreeable  phenomenon,  — a star,  brighter.  I think, 
than  I ever  saw  one  before.  Just,  however,  as  I began  to 
take  courage  at  a siglit  which  was  of  good  omen,  m3'  patron 
star  suddenl3'  disappeared,  and  left  me  in  darkness  again. 

At  davbreak  I at  last  discovered  the  cause  of  the  marvel : 
there  was  a hole  in  the  roof,  and  at  the  moment  of  mv  vision 
one  of  the  brightest  stars  must  have  been  crossing  1113’  meri- 
dian. This  purety  natural  phenomenon  was,  however,  inter- 
preted by  us  travellers  as  highlv  favorable. 

SciACCA,  April  02. 17S7. 

The  road  hither,  which  runs  over  nothing  but  gravelly  hills, 
has  been  mineralogiealh'  uninteresting.  The  traveller  here 
reaches  tlie  shore,  from  which,  at  different  points,  bold  lime- 
stone rocks  rise  suddenly.  All  the  flat  land  is  extremely  fer- 
tile ; barle3'  and  oats  in  the  finest  condition.  The  salsola-kali 
is  here  cultivated.  The  aloes,  since  vesterday  and  the  day 
before,  have  shot  forth  their  tall  spikes.  The  same  nu- 
merous varieties  of  the  trefoil  still  attended  us.  At  last  we 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


315 


came  on  a little  wood,  thick  with  brushwood,  the  tall  trees 
standing  very  wide  apart ; and,  lastly,  the  cork-tree. 

Evening. 

Girgenti,  April  23,  1787. 

From  Sciacca  to  this  place  is  a hard  day’s  ride.  We  ex- 
amined the  baths  at  the  last-named  place.  A hot  stream 
burst  from  the  rock  with  a strong  smell  of  sulphur  : the  water 
had  a strong  saline  flavor,  but  it  was  not  at  all  thick.  May 
not  this  sulphureous  exhalation  be  formed  at  the  moment  of 
its  breaking  from  the  rock?  A little  higher  is  a spring,  quite 
cool  and  without  smell.  Right  above  is  the  monastery,  where 
are  the  vapor  baths  : a thick  mist  rises  above  it  into  the  pure 
air. 

The.shingles  on  the  shore  are  nothing  but  limestone  : the 
quartz  and  horustone  have  wholly  disappeared.  I have  ex- 
amined all  the  little  streams : the  Calta  Bellota,  and  the 
Maccasoli,  carry  down  with  them  nothing  but  limestone  ; the 
Platani,  a yellow  marble  and  flint,  the  invariable  companion 
of  this  nobler  calcareous  formation.  A few  pieces  of  lava 
excited  my  attention,  but  I saw  nothing  in  this  country  that 
indicated  the  presence  of  volcanic  action.  I supposed,  there- 
fore, the}'  must  be  fragments  of  millstones,  or  of  pieces 
brought  from  a distance  for  some  such  use.  Near  Monte 
Allegro,  the  stone  is  all  gypsum  and  selenite,  — whole  rocks 
of  these  occurring  before  and  between  the  limestone.  The 
wonderful  strata  of  Bellota  ! 


Girgenti, 

Taesdaj',  April  24, 1787. 

Such  a glorious  spring  view  as  we  enjoyed  at  sunset  to- 
day will  most  assuredly  never  meet  our  eyes  again  in  one 
lifetime.  Modern  Girgenti  stands  on  the  lofty  site  of  the 
ancient  fortifications,  an  extent  sufficient  for  the  present 
population.  From  our  window,  we  looked  over  the  broad  but 
gentle  declivity  on  which  stood  the  ancient  town,  whicli  is 
now  entirely  covered  with  gardens  and  vineyards,  beneath 
whose  verdure  it  would  be  long  before  one  thought  of  look- 
ing for  tlie  quarters  of  an  ancient  city.  However,  towards 
the  southern  end  of  this  green  and  flourishing  spot  tlie 
Temple  of  Concord  rears  itself,  while  on  the  east  are  a few 
remains  of  the  Temple  of  Juno.  Other  ruins  of  some  ancient 
buildings,  which,  lying  in  a straight  line  wdth  those  already 
spoken  of,  are  scarcely  noticed  by  the  eye  from  above,  v'hile 


316 


LETTERS  FRO^E  ITALY. 


it  hurries  over  them  southwards  to  the  shore,  or  ranges  over 
the  level  country,  which  reaches  at  least  seven  miles  from 
the  sea-mark.  To-day  we  were  oldiged  to  deny  ourselves  the 
pleasure  of  a stroll  among  the  trees  and  wild  rockets,  and 
over  this  expanse,  so  green,  so  flourishing,  and  so  full  of 
promise  for  the  husbandman,  because  our  guide  (a  good-na- 
tured little  parish  priest)  begged  of  us  above  all  things  to 
devote  this  day  to  the  town. 

He  first  showed  us  the  well-built  streets  ; then  he  took  us 
to  the  higher  points,  from  which  the  view,  gaining  both  in 
extent  and  breadth,  was  still  more  glorious  ; and  lastly,  for 
an  artistic  treat,  conducted  us  to  the  principal  church.  In  it  i 
there  is  an  ancient  sarcophagus  in  good  preservation  ; the 
fact  of  its  being  used  for  the  altar  has  rescued  it  from  de-  i 
striiction  : Hippolytus,  attended  by  his  hunting  companions 
and  horses,  has  just  been  stopped  bj’  Phmdra’s  nurse,  who 
wishes  to  deliver  a letter  to  him.  As  in  this  piece  the  princi- 
pal object  was  to  exhibit  beautiful  youthful  forms,  the  old  J 
woman,  as  a mere  subordinate  personage,  is  represented  veiy 
short  and  dwarfish,  in  order  not  to  disturb  the  intended  I 
effect.  Of  all  the  alto-relievos  I have  ever  seen,  I do  not, 

I think,  remember  one  more  glorious,  and  at  the  same  time  I 

so  well  preserved,  as  this.  Until  I meet  with  a better,  it  1 

must  pass  witli  me  as  a specimen  of  the  most  graceful 
period  of  Grecian  art. 

We  were  carried  back  to  still  earlier  periods  of  art  by  the 
examination  of  a costly  vase,  of  considerable  size,  and  in 
excellent  condition.  Moreover,  many  relics  of  ancient  archi- 
tecture appeared  worked  up  here  and  there  in  the  walls  of 
the  modern  church. 

As  there  is  no  inn  or  hotel  in  this  place,  a kind  and  wor- 
thy famil}’  made  room  for  us,  and  gave  up  for  our  accom- 
modation an  alcove  belonging  to  a large  room.  A green 
curtain  separated  us  and  our  baggage  from  the  members  of 
the  family,  who,  in  the  more  spacious  apartment,  were  em- 
ploj’ed  in  preparing  macaroni  of  the  whitest  and  smallest 
kill'd.  I sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  pretty  children,  and 
had  the  whole  process  explained  to  me.  and  was  informed 
that  it  is  prepared  from  the  finest  and  hardest  wheat,  called 
Orano  forte.  That  sort,  the}’  also  told  me.  fetches  the  highest 
price,  which,  after  being  formed  into  long  pipes,  is  twisted 
into  coils,  and,  by  the  tip  of  the  fair  artiste's  fingers,  made 
to  assume  a serpentine  shape.  The  preparation  is  chiefly  . 
by  the  hand : machines  and  moulds  are  very  little  used. 


LETTERS  EROM  ITALY. 


317 


They  also  prepared  for  us  a dish  of  the  most  excellent 
macaroni,  regretting,  however,  that  at  that  moment  they 
had  not  even  a single  dish  of  the  very  best  kind,  which 
could  not  be  made  out  of  Girgenti,  nor  indeed,  out  of  their 
house.  What  they  did  dress  for  me  appeared  to  me  to  be 
unequalled  in  whiteness  and  tenderness. 

By  leading  us  once  more  to  the  heights  and  to  the  most 
glorious  points  of  view,  our  guide  contrived  to  appease  the 
restlessness  which  during  the  evening  kept  us  constantly 
out  of  doors.  As  we  took  a survey  of  the  whole  neighbor- 
liood,  he  pointed  out  all  the  remarkable  objects  which  on 
the  morrow  we  had  proposed  to  examine  more  nearly. 

Girgexti, 

'Wednesday,  April  25,  1787. 

With  sunrise  we  took  our  way  towards  the  plain,  while 
at  every  step  the  surrounding  scenery  assumed  a still  more 
picturesque  appearance.  With  the  consciousness  that  it  was 
for  our  advantage,  the  little  man  led  us,  without  stopping, 
right  across  the  rich  vegetation,  over  a thousand  little  spots, 
each  of  which  might  have  furnished  the  locale  for  an  idjdlic 
scene.  This  variety  of  scene  is  greatly  due  to  the  uneven- 
ness of  the  country,  undulating  as  it  passes  over  hidden 
ruins,  which  probably  were  very  quickly  covered  with  fertile 
soil,  as  the  ancient  buildings  consisted  of  a light  muschel- 
tufa.  At  last  we  arrived  at  the  eastern  end  of  the  city, 
where  are  the  ruins  of  the  Temple  of  Juno,  of  which  every 
yeai‘  must  have  accelerated  the  decay,  as  the  air  and  weather 
are  constantly  fretting  the  soft  stone  of  which  it  is  built. 
To-day  we  only  devoted  a cursory  examination  to,  it,  but 
Kniep  has  already  chosen  the  points  from  which  to  sketch 
it  to-morrow.  The  temple  stands  on  a rock  which  is  now 
much  worn  by  the  weather.  From  this  point  the  city  walls 
stretched  in  a straight  line,  eastwards,  to  a bed  of  limestone, 
that  rises  perpendicular  from  the  level  strand,  which  the  sea 
has  abandoned,  after  having  shaped  these  rocks  and  long 
washed  the  foot  of  them.  Hewn  partly  out  of  the  native 
rock,  and  partly  built  of  it,  were  the  walls  of  ancient  Agri- 
gentum,  from  behind  which  towered  a line  of  temples.  No 
wonder,  then,  if  from  the  sea  the  lower,  middle,  and  upper 
towns  presented  together  a most  striking  aspect. 

The  Temple  of  Concord  has  withstood  so  many  centuries. 
Its  light  style  of  architecture  closely  approximates  it  to  our 
present  standard  of  the  beautiful  and  tasteful ; so  that  as 


318 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


compared  with  that  of  Paestnm,  it  is,  as  it  were,  the  shape 
of  a god  to  that  of  a gigantic  figure.  I will  not  give  utter- 
ance to  my  regrets  that  the  recent  praiseworthj’  design  of 
restoring  this  monument  should  have  been  so  tastelessly 
carried  out,  that  the  gaps  and  defects  are  actually  filled  up 
with  a dazzling  white  gj'psum.  Consequently,  this  monu- 
ment of  ancient  art  stands  before  the  eye,  in  a certain  sense, 
dilapidated  and  disfigured.  How  easy  it  would  have  been 
to  give  the  gypsum  the  same  tint  as  the  weather-eaten  stone 
of  the  rest  of  the  building ! In  truth,  when  one  looks  at 
the  muschelkalk  of  which  the  walls  and  columns  are  com- 
posed, and  sees  how  easily  it  crumbles  away,  his  only  sur- 
prise is  that  they  have  lasted  so  long.  But  the  builders, 
reckoning  on  a posterity  similar  to  themselves,  had  taken 
precautions  against  it.  One  observes  on  the  pillars  the  re- 
mains of  a fine  plaster,  which  would  at  once  please  the 
eye  and  insure  durability. 

Our  next  halt  was  at  the  ruins  of  the  Temple  of  Jupiter. 
Like  the  bones  of  a gigantic  skeleton,  they  are  scattei-ed 
over  a large  space,  having  several  small  cottages  inter- 
spersed among  them,  and  being  intersected  by  hedgerows, 
while  amidst  them  are  growing  2)lants  of  different  sizes. 

From  this  pile  of  ruins  all  the  carved  stone  has  disap- 
peared, except  an  enormous  triglyph,  and  a part  of  a round 
pilaster  of  corresponding  proportions.  I attempted  to  span 
it  with  outstretched  arms,  but  could  not  reach  round  it.  Of 
the  fluting  of  the  column,  however,  some  idea  may  be  formed 
from  the  fact,  that,  standing  in  it  as  in  a niche.  I just  filled 
it  up  and  touched  it  on  both  sides  with  my  shoulders.  Two 
and  twenty  men  arranged  in  a circle  would  give  nearly  the 
circumference  of  such  a column.  We  went  away  with  the 
disagreeable  feeling  that  there  was  nothing  here  to  tempt 
the  draughtsman. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Temple  of  Hercules  still  showed 
some  traces  of  its  former  symmetry.  The  pillars  of  the 
peristyles,  which  ran  along  the  temple  on  its  upper  and  lower 
side,  lie  parallel,  as  if  they  had  all  fallen  together,  and  at 
once,  from  north  to  south.  — the  one  row  lying  up  the  hill, 
the  other  down  it.  The  hill  may  possibly  have  been  formed 
by  the  ruined  cells  or  shrines.  The  columns,  probably  held 
together  b}"  the  architrave,  fell  all  at  once,  being  suddenly 
thrown  down,  perhaps  by  a violent  wind,  and  lie  in  regular 
order,  only  broken  into  the  pieces  of  which  they  were  origin- 
ally composed.  Kniep  was  already,  in  imagination,  pre- 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


319 


paring  his  pencil  for  an  accurate  sketch  of  this  singular 
phenomenon. 

The  Temple  of  ^sculapius,  lying  beneath  the  shade  of  a 
most  beautiful  carob-tree,  and  closely  built  upon  by  some 
mean  farm-buildings,  presented  to  our  minds  a most  agree- 
able aspect. 

Next  we  went  down  to  Therou’s  Tomb,  and  were  delighted 
with  the  actual  sight  of  this  monument,  of  which  we  had 
seen  so  many  models,  especially  as  it  served  for  the  fore- 
ground of  a most  rare  prospect ; for,  from  west  to  east,  we 
looked  on  the  line  of  rocks  on  which  lay  the  fragments  of 
the  walls,  while  through  the  gaps  of  the  latter,  and  over 
them,  the  remains  of  the  temples  were  visible. 

This  view  has,  under  Hackert’s  skilful  hand,  furnished  a 
most  delightful  picture.  Here,  too,  Kniep  will  not  omit  to 
make  a sketch. 

Gikgenti,  April  26,  1787. 

When  I awoke,  Kniep  was  all  ready  to  start  on  bis  artistic 
journey,  with  a boy  to  show  him  the  way,  and  to  carry  his 
portfolio.  I enjo3'ed  this  most  glorious  morning  at  the  win- 
dow, with  niy  secret  and  silent,  but  not  dumb,  friend  by  my 
side.  A devout  reverence  has  hitherto  kept  me  from  men- 
tioning the  name  of  the  mentor  whom,  from  time  to  time, 
I have  looked  up  and  listened  to.  It  is  the  excellent  Von 
Riedesel,  whose  little  volume  I carry  about  with  me  in  my 
bosom,  like  a breviary  or  talisman.  At  all  times  I have 
had  great  pleasure  in  looking  up  to  those  whom  I know  to 
be  possessed  of  what  I am  most  wanting  in  myself.  And 
this  is  exactly'  the  case  here.  A steady  purpose,  a fixed 
object,  direct  and  appropriate  means,  due  preparation  and 
store  of  knowledge,  an  intimate  connection  with  a masterly 
teacher,  — he  studied  under  'Wiuckelmaun,  — of  all  these 
advantages  I am  devoid,  as  well  as  of  all  that  follows  from 
them.  And  yet  I cannot  feel  angiy  with  nwself  that  I am 
obliged  to  gain  by  indirect  arts  and  means,  and  to  seize  at  once, 
what  my  previous  existence  had  refused  to  grant  me  gradu- 
ally in  the  ordinary  wa3^  Oh  that  this  worthy'  person  could, 
at  this  moment,  in  the  midst  of  his  bustling  world,  be  sensi- 
ble of  the  gratitude  with  which  one,  travelling  in  his  foot- 
steps, celebrates  his  merits,  in  that  beautiful  but  solitary 
spot  which  had  so  manj'  charms  for  him  as  to  induce  the 
wish  that  he  might  end  his  days  there  ! 

Oblitusque  suorum  oblivisceiidus  et  illis. 


320 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


With  gnicle,  the  little  parson,  I now  retraced  our  yes- 
terday’s walk,  observing'  the  objects  from  several  points,  and 
every  now  and  then  taking  a peep  at  my  industrious  friend. 

My  guide  called  my  attention  to  a beautiful  institution 
of  the  once  flourishing  city.  In  the  rocks  and  masses  of 
masonry  which  served  as  bulwarks  to  ancient  Agrigentum, 
are  found  graves,  probably  intended  for  the  resting-place  of 
the  brave  and  good.  Where  could  they  more  fitly  have  been 
buried,  for  the  sake  of  their  own  glory,  or  for  perpetuating  a 
vivid  emulation  of  their  great  and  good  deeds  ! 

In  the  space  between  the  walls  and  the  sea  there  are  still 
standing  the  remains  of  an  ancient  temple,  which  are  pre- 
served as  a Christian  chapel.  Here,  also,  are  found  round 
pilasters,  worked  up  with,  and  beautifully  united  to,  the 
square  blocks  of  the  wall,  so  as  to  produce  an  agreeable 
effect  to  the  ej'e.  One  fancies  that  one  here  discerns  the 
very  spot  where  the  Doric  style  reached  its  perfection. 

Many  an  insignificant  monument  of  antiquity  was  curso- 
rily glanced  at ; but  more  attention  was  paid  to  the  modern 
way  of  keeping  the  corn  under  the  earth  in  great  vaulted 
chambers.  Of  the  civil  and  ecclesiastical  condition  of  the 
citjq  my  guide  gave  me  much  information  ; but  I heard  of 
nothing  that  showed  any  signs  of  improvement.  The  con- 
versation suited  well  with  the  ruins,  which  the  elements  are 
still  preying  upon. 

The  strata  of  the  muschelkalk  all  incline  towards  the  sea, 
— banks  of  rock  strangely  eaten  away  from  beneath  and 
behind,  while  the  upper  and  front  portions  still  remain,  look- 
ing like  pendent  fringes. 

Great  hatred  is  here  felt  against  the  French,  because  they 
have  made  peace  with  the  people  of  Barbary.  They  are  even 
charged  with  betraying  the  Christians  to  the  infidels. 

From  the  sea  there  was  an  ancient  gateway,  which  was 
cut  through  the  solid  rock.  The  foundation  of  the  walls, 
wliich  are  still  standing,  rests  as  it  were  on  steps  in  the 
rocks. 

Our  cicerone  is  Don  Jilichaele  Vella,  antiquaiy,  residing  at 
the  house  of  Signore  Cerio,  near  St.  Maria’s. 

In  the  planting  of  marsh-beans  they  proceed  in  the  follow- 
ing way : Holes  are  made  in  the  earth  at  a convenient  dis- 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


321 


tance  from  each  other,  and  a handful  of  dung  is  thi’own  in. 
They  then  wait  for  rain,  after  which  they  put  in  the  seed. 
The  people  here  burn  the  bean-hanlms,  and  wash  their  linen 
with  the  ashes;  They  never  make  use  of  soap.  The  outer 
shells  of  almonds  are  likewise  burnt,  and  used  instead  of 
soda.  They  first  of  all  wash  the  clothes  with  pure  water, 
and  then  with  the  Ij^e  of  these  ashes. 

The  succession  of  their  crops  is,  beans,  wheat,  and  tume- 
nia.  By  beans  I mean  the  marsh-beau.  Their  wheat  is 
wonderfully  fine.  Tumeuia,  of  which  the  name  is  derived 
from  bimeuia,  or  trimeuia,  is  a glorious  gift  of  Ceres.  It  is 
a species  of  spring  wheat,  which  is  matured  within  three 
months.  It  is  sown  at  different  times,  from  the  first  of  Jan- 
uary to  June,  so  that  for  a certain  period  there  is  always  a 
crop  ripe.  It  requires  neither  much  rain  nor  great  warmth. 
At  first  it  has  a very  delicate  leaf,  but  in  its  growth  it  soon 
overtakes4he  wheat,  and  at  last  is  very  strong.  Wheat  is 
sown  in  October  and  November,  and  ripens  in  June.  The 
barley  sown  in  November  is  ripe  by  the  first  of  June.  Near 
the  coast  it  ripens  sooner,  but  on  the  mountains  more  slowly. 

The  flax  is  already  ripe.  The  acanthus  has  unrolled  its 
splendid  leaves.  The  Salsala  fruticosa  is  growing  luxuri- 
antly. 

On  the  uncultivated  hills  grows  a rich  saufoin.  It  is 
farmed  out,  and  then  carried  into  the  town  in  small  bundles. 
In  the  same  way,  the  oats  which  are  weeded  out  of  the  wheat 
are  done  up  for  sale. 

For  the  sake  of  irrigation,  they  make  very  pretty  divisions 
with  edgings,  in  the  plots  where  they  plant  their  cabbages. 

The  figs  have  put  forth  all  their  leaves,  and  the  fruit  is 
set.  They  are  generally  ripe  by  midsummer,  when  the  tree 
sets  its  fruit  again.  The  almond-trees  are  well  loaded : a 
sheltered  carob-tree  has  produced  numberless  pods.  The 
grapes  for  the  table  are  trained  on  arbors  supported  l\y  high 
props.  Melons  set  in  March,  and  ripen  by  June.  Among 
the  ruins  of  Jupiter’s  temple  they  thrive  vigorously  without  a 
trace  of  moisture. 

Our  vetturino  eats  with  great  zest  raw  artichokes  and  the 
turnip-cabbage.  However,  it  is  necessary  to  add,  that  they 
arff  more  tender  and  more  delicate  than  with  us.  M hen  you 
walk  through  the  fields  the  farmers  allow  you  to  take  as 
many  of  the  young  beaus,  or  other  crops,  as  you  like. 


322 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


f 


As  my  attention  was  caught  by  some  hard,  black  stones, 
which  looked  like  lava,  my  antiquar}'  observed  that  they 
were  from  2Etna  ; and  that  at  the  harbor,  or  rather  landing- 
place,  many  similar  ones  were  to  be  found. 

Of  birds  there  are  not  many  kinds  native  here  : quails  are 
the  most  common.  The  birds  of  passage  are,  nightingales, 
larks,  and  swallows.  The  rinnine  — small  black  birds, 
Avliich  come  from  the  Levant  — hatch  their  young  in  Sicily, 
and  then  go  farther  or  retire.  The  ridene  come  in  Decem- 
ber or  January,  and  after  alighting,  and  resting  a while  on 
Acragas,  take  their  flight  towards  the  mountains. 

Of  the  Amse  in  the  cathedral  one  word  more.  The  flgures 
upon  it  are,  a hero  in  full  armor,  seemingly  a stranger,  be- 
fore an  old  man  Avhom  a crown  and  scepti'e  point  out  to  be  a 
king.  Behind  the  latter  stands  a female  figure,  with  her 
head  slightly  inclined,  and  her  hand  under  her  chin,  — a pos- 
ture indicating  thoughtful  attention.  Right  opposite  to  her, 
and  behind  the  hero,  is  an  old  man  who  also  wears  a crown, 
and  is  speaking  to  a man  armed  with  a spear,  probably  one 
of  the  body-guard  of  the  former  royal  personage.  This  old 
man  would  appear  to  have  introduced  the  hero,  and  to  be 
saying  to  the  guard,  “ Just  let  him  speak  to  the  king  : he  is 
a brave  man.” 

Red  seems  to  be  the  ground  of  the  A'ase,  the  black  to  be 
laid  on.  It  is  only  in  the  female’s  robe  that  red  seems  to  be 
laid  on  the  black. 

Girgexti, 

Friday,  April  27,  1787. 

If  Kniep  is  to  finish  all  he  proposes,  he  must  sketch  away 
incessantly.  In  the  mean  time  I walk  about  with  my  little 
antiquary.  We  took  a walk  towards  the  sea,  from  which 
Agrigentum  must,  as  tlie  ancients  asserted,  have  looked  ex- 
tremely well.  Our  view  was  turned  to  the  billowy  expanse  ; 
and  my  guide  called  my  attention  to  a broad  streak  of  clouds, 
towards  the  south,  which,  like  a ridge  of  hills,  seemed  to  rest 
on  the  line  of  the  horizon.  “This,”  he  said,  ‘•indicated 
the  coast  of  Africa.”  About  the  same  time  another  phe- 
nomenon struck  me  as  singular.  It  was  a raiubow,  in  a light 
cloud,  which,  resting  with  one  limb  on  Sicily,  threw  its  ai*ch 
high  against  the  clear  sky,  and  appeared  to  rest  with  the 
other  on  the  sea.  Beautifully  tinted  b}'  the  setting  sun,  and 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY.  323 

showing  but  little  movement,  it  was  to  the  ejm  an  object  as 
rare  as  it  was  agi-eeable.  This  bow,  I was  assured,  was  ex- 
actly in  the  direction  of  Malta ; and  perhaps  its  other  limb 
rested  on  that  island.  The  plienomenon,  I was  told,  was  of 
common  occurrence.  It  would  be  singular  if  the  attractive 
force  of  these  two  islands  should  thus  manifest  itself  even  in 
the  atmosphere. 

This,  conversation  excited  again  the  question  I had  so 
often  asked  myself : whether  I ought  to  give  up  all  idea  of 
visiting  Malta.  The  difficulties  and  dangers,  however, 
which  had  been  already  well  considered,  remained  the  same  ; 
and  we,  therefore,  resolved  to  engage  our  vetturino  to  take 
us  to  Messina. 

But,  in  the  mean  time,  a strange  and  peculiar  whim  was  to 
deteiTuiue  our  future  movements.  For  instance,  in  my 
travels  through  Sicil}^  I had  as  yet  seen  but  few  districts 
rich  in  corn  : moreover,  the  horizon  had  eveiywhere  been 
confined  by  nearer  or  remoter  lines  of  hills,  so  that  the  island 
appeared  to  be  utterly  devoid  of  level  plains,  and  I found  it 
impossible  to  conceive  why  Ceres  had  so  highlj'  favored  this 
island.  As  I sought  for  information  on  this  point,  I was 
answered,  that,  in  order  to  see  this,  I ought,  instead  of  going 
to  S3’racuse,  to  travel  across  the  island,  in  which  case  I should 
see  cornfields  in  abundance.  We  followed  this  temptation 
of  giving  up  Syracuse,  especially  as  I was  well  aware  that  of 
this  once  glorious  city  scarcely  any  thing  but  its  splendid 
name  remained.  And,  at  any  rate,  it  was  easy  to  visit  it 
from  Catania. 

CAI.TAXISETTA, 
Saturday,  April  28,  1787. 

At  last  we  are  able  to  understand  how  .Sicil}*  gained  the 
honorable  title  of  the  Granary  of  Italy.  Shortly  after  leav- 
ing Girgenti,  the  fertile  district  commenced.  It  does  not 
consist  of  a single  great  plain,  but  of  the  sides  of  mountains 
and  hills,  gently  inclined  towards  each  other,  eveiy where 
planted  with  wheat  or  barley,  which  present  to  the  eye  an 
unbroken  mass  of  vegetation.  Every  spot  of  earth  suited  to 
these  crops  is  so  put  to  use  and  so  jealously  looked  after, 
that  not  a tree  is  anj'where  to  be  seen.  Indeed,  the  little 
villages  and  farm-houses  all  lie  on  the  ridges  of  the  hills, 
where  a row  of  limestone  rocks  (which  often  appear  on 
the  surface)  renders  the  ground  unfit  for  tillage.  Here  the 
women  reside  throughout  the  j'car,  busily  employed  in  spin- 


324 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


iiing  and  weaving  ; but  the  men,  while  the  work  in  the  fields 
is  going  on,  spend  only  Saturday  and  Sunday  at  home,  staj"- 
ing  away  at  their  worli  during  the  other  days,  and  spending 
tlieir  nights  under  temporary  straw  sheds. 

And  so  our  wisli  was  gratified  — even  to  satiety,  e almost 
wished  for  the  winged  car  of  Triptolemus  to  escape  from  the 
monotony  of  the  scene. 

After  a long  drive  under  the  hot  sun,  through  this  wilder- 
ness of  fertility,  we  were  glad  enough  when,  at  last,  we 
reached  the  well-situated  and  well-built  Caltanisetta  ; where, 
however,  we  had  again  to  look  in  vain  for  a tolerable  inn. 
The  mules  are  housed  in  fine  vaulted  stables ; the  grooms 
sleep  on  the  heaps  of  clover  wliich  are  intended  for  the 
animals’  food  ; but  the  stranger  has  to  look  out  for  and  to 
prepare  his  own  lodging.  If,  by  chance,  he  can  hire  a room, 
it  has  first  of  all  to  be  swept  out  and  cleaned.  Stools  or 
chairs,  there  are  none  ; the  only  seats  to  be  had  are  low  little 
forms  of  hard  wood ; tables  are  not  to  be  thought  of. 

If  you  wish  to  convert  these  forms  into  a bedstead,  you 
must  send  to  a joiner,  and  hire  as  many  planks  as  you  want. 
The  large  leathern  bag,  which  Hackert  lent  me,  was  of  good 
use  now,  and  was,  by  way  of  anticipation,  filled  with  cut 
straw. 

But,  above  all  things,  provision  must  be  made  for  your 
meals.  On  our  road  we  had  bought  a fowl : our  vettnrino 
ran  off  to  purchase  some  rice,  salt,  and  spice.  As,  however, 
he  had  never  been  here  before,  he  was  for  a long  time  in  a 
perplexit3'  for  a place  to  cook  our  meal  in,  as  in  the  post-house 
itself  there  was  no  possibility  of  doing  it.  At  last  an  old 
man  of  the  town  agreed  for  a fair  recompense  to  proA'ide  us 
with  a hearth,  together  with  fuel,  and  cooking  and  table 
utensils.  While  our  dinner  Avas  cooking,  he  undertook  to 
guide  us  round  the  tOAvn,  and  finally  to  the  market-house, 
Avhere  the  principal  inhabitants,  after  the  ancient  fashion, 
met  to  talk  together,  and  also  to  hear  what  we  or  otlier 
strangers  might  saj". 

We  Avere  obliged  to  talk  to  them  of  Frederick  the  Second  : 
and  their  interest  in  this  great  king  Avas  sucli  that  we  thought 
it  advisable  to  keep  back  the  fact  of  his  death,  lest  our  being 
the  bearers  of  such  untoward  news  should  render  us  uuAvel- 
come  to  our  hosts. 

Geology  b}"  way  of  an  appendix  ! From  Girgenti.  the  mus- 
chelkalk  rocks.  There  also  appeared  a streak  of  Avhitish  earth. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


325 


which  afterwaixls  we  accounted  for.  The  older  limestone 
formation  again  occurs,  with  gypsum  lying  immediately  upon 
it.  Broad  flat  valleys,  cultivated  almost  up  to  the  top  of  the 
hillside  and  often  quite  over  it,  the  older  limestone  mixed 
with  crumbled  gypsum.  After  this  appears  a looser,  yellow- 
ish, easily  crumbling,  limestone  : in  the  arable  fields  you  dis- 
tinctly recognize  its  color,  which  often  passes  into  darker, 
indeed  occasionally  violet,  shades.  About  half-waj'  the  gyp- 
sum agaiu  recurs.  On  it  you  see  growing,  in  maii}^  places, 
sedum,  of  a beautiful  violet,  almost  rosy  red  ; and  on  the 
limestone  rocks,  moss  of  a beautiful  yellow. 

The  former  crumbling  limestone  often  shows  itself ; but 
most  prominently  in  the  neighborhood  of  Caltanisetta,  where 
it  lies  in  strata,  containing  a few  fossils  : there  its  appearance 
is  reddish,  almost  of  a vermilion  tint,  with  little  of  the  violet 
hue  which  we  formerly  observed  near  San  Martino. 

Pebbles  of  quartz  I only  observed  at  a spot  about  half-way 
on  our  journejs  in  a vallej'  which,  shut  in  on  three  sides,  is 
open  towards  the  east,  and  consequently  also  towards  the  sea. 

On  the  left,  the  high  mountain  in  the  distance,  near  Came- 
rata,  was  remarkable,  as  also  was  another,  looking  like  a 
propped  up  cone.  For  the  greatest  half  of  the  way  not  a tree 
was  to  be  seen.  The  crops  looked  glorious,  though  they  were 
not  so  high  as  they  were  in  the  neighborhood  of  Girgeuti  and 
near  the  coast ; however,  as  clean  as  possible.  In  the  fields 
of  corn,  which  stretched  farther  than  the  eye  could  reach,  not 
a weed  to  be  seen.  At  first  we  saw  nothing  but  green  fields ; 
then  some  ploughed  lands  ; and  last!}',  in  the  moister  spots, 
little  patches  of  wheat,  close  to  Girgenti.  M'e  saw  apples 
and  pears  everywhere  else  ; on  the  heights,  and  iu  the  vicinity 
of  a few  little  villages,  some  fig-trees. 

These  thirty  miles,  together  with  all  that  I could  distinguish 
either  on  the  right  or  left  of  us,  was  limestone  of  earlier  or 
later  fonnations,  with  gypsum  here  and  there.  It  is  to  the 
crumbling  and  elaboration  of  these  three  together  by  the 
atmosphere  that  this  district  is  indebted  for  its  fertility.  It 
must  contain  but  very  little  sand,  for  it  scarcely  grates 
between  the  teeth.  A conjecture  with  regard  to  the  river 
Achates  must  wait  for  the  morrow  to  confirm  it. 

The  valleys  have  a pretty  form  ; and  although  they  are  not 
flat,  still  one  does  not  observe  any  trace  of  rain  gullies,  — 
merely  a few  brooks,  scarcely  noticeable,  ripple  along  them, 
for  all  of  them  flow  direct  to  the  sea.  But  little  of  the  red 
clover  is  to  be  seen  ; the  dwarf  palm  also  disappears  here,  as 


326 


LETTERS  FRO:\I  ITALY. 


well  as  all  the  other  flowers  and  shrubs  of  the  south-western 
side  of  the  island.  The  thistles  are  permitted  to  take  pos- 
session of  nothing  but  the  waysides  ; every  other  spot  is 
sacred  to  Ceres.  Moreover,  this  region  has  a great  simi- 
larity to  the  hilly  and  fertile  parts  of  Germany,  — for  in- 
stance, the  tract  between  Erfurt  and  Gotha,  — especially 
when  3’ou  look  out  for  points  of  resemblance.  Veiy  many 
things  must  combine  in  order  to  make  .Sicily  one  of  the  most 
fertile  regions  of  the  world. 

On  our  whole  tour  we  have  seen  but  few  horses  : plough- 
ing is  carried  on  with  oxen,  and  a law  exists  which  forbids 
the  killing  of  cows  and  calves.  Goats,  asses,  and  mules  we 
met  in  abundance.  The  horses  are  mostly  dapple-gray,  with 
black  feet  and  manes.  The  stables  are  very  splendid,  with 
well-paved  and  vaulted  stalls.  For  beans  and  flax  the  land 
is  dressed  with  dung : the  other  crops  are  then  grown  after 
this  early  one  has  been  gathered  in.  Green  barley  in  the 
ear,  done  up  in  bundles,  and  red  clover  iu  like  fashion,  are 
offered  for  sale  to  the  traveller  as  he  goes  along. 

On  the  hill  above  Caltaiiisetta  1 found  a hard  limestone 
with  fossils : the  larger  shells  lav  lowermost,  the  smaller 
above  them.  In  the  pavement  of  this  little  town,  we  noticed 
a limestone  with  pectinites. 

Behind  Caltauisetta  the  hill  subsided  suddenly  into  many 
little  valleys,  all  of  which  pour  their  streams  iuto  the  river 
Salso.  The  soil  here  is  reddish  and  very  loamy,  much  of  it 
uiiworked  : what  was  iu  cultivation  bore  tolerably  good  crops, 
though  inferior  to  what  we  had  seen  elsewhere. 


Castro  Giovaxst, 
Sunday,  April  2i),  ITS". 

To-day  we  had  to  observe  still  greater  fertility,  and  want  of 
population.  Heavy  rains  had  fallen,  which  made  rtavelling 
any  thing  but  pleasant,  as  we  had  to  pass  through  many 
streams  which  were  swollen  and  rapid.  At  the  Salso,  where 
one  looks  round  in  vain  for  a bridge,  I was  struck  with  a very 
singular  arrangement  for  passing  the  ford.  Strong,  powerful 
men  were  waiting  at  the  river-side.  Of  these,  two  placed 
themselves  on  each  side  of  a mule,  and  conducted  him.  rider, 
baggage,  and  all,  through  the  deep  part  of  the  river,  till  they 
reach  a great  bank  of  gravel  in  the  middle : when  the  whole 
of  the  travellers  have  arrived  at  this  spot,  they  are  again 
conducted  iu  the  same  manner  through  the  second  arm  of  the 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


327 


stream  ; while  the  fellows,  by  pushing  and  shoving,  keep  the 
animal  in  the  right  track,  and  support  him  against  the  current. 

On  the  water-side  I observed  bushes,  which,  however,  do 
not  spread  far  into  the  land.  The  Salso  washes  down  rub- 
bles of  granite,  — a transition  of  the  gneiss, — and  marble, 
both  breccian  and  also  of  a single  color. 

We  now  saw  before  us  the  isolated  mountain  ridge  on 
which  Castro  Giovanni  is  situate,  and  which  imparts  to  the 
country  about  it  a grave  and  singular  character.  As  we  rode 
up  the  long  road  which  traverses  its  side,  we  found  that  the 
rock  consisted  of  muschelkalk ; large  calcined  shells  being 
huddled  together  in  heaps.  ITou  do  not  see  Castro  Giovanni 
until  you  reach  the  very  summit  of  the  ridge,  for  it  lies  on 
the  northern  declivity  of  the  mountain.  The  singular  little 
town,  with  its  tower,  and  the  village  of  Caltaseibetta,  at  a 
little  distance  on  the  left,  stand,  as  it  were,  solemnly  gazing 
at  each  other.  In  the  plains  we  saw  the  bean  in  full  blossom  ; 
but  who  is  there  that  could  take  pleasure  in  such  a sight? 
The  roads  here  were  horrible,  and  the  more  so  because  they 
once  were  paved,  and  it  rained  incessantly.  The  ancient 
Erma  received  us  most  inhospitably,  — a room  with  a paved 
floor,  with  shutters  and  no  window,  so  that  we  had  either  to 
sit  in  darkness  or  be  again  exposed  to  the  beating  rain,  from 
which  we  had  thought  to  escape  by  putting  up  here . We  ate 
some  remnants  of  our  travelling  provisions,  and  passed  a 
most  miserable  night.  We  made  a solemn  vow  never  to 
direct  our  course  again  towards  never  so  mythological  a 
name. 


Moxday,  April  30,  1787. 

The  road  leading  from  Castro  Giovanni  was  so  rough  and 
bad,  that  we  were  obliged  to  lead  our  horses  down  it.  The 
sky  before  us  was  covered  with  thick  and  low  clouds,  while 
high  above  them  a singular  phenomenon  was  observable.  It 
was  striped  wdiite  and  gray,  and  seemed  to  be  something 
corporeal ; but  how  could  aught  coi’poreal  get  into  the  sky  ? 
Our  guide  enlightened  us.  This  subject  of  our  amazement 
was  a side  of  Mount  Mltna,  which  appeared  through  the 
opening  clouds.  Snow  alternating  with  tlie  crags  formed  the 
stripes  : it  was  not,  however,  the  highest  peak  that  we  saw. 

The  precipitous  rock,  on  which  ancient  Enna  was  situated, 
lay  behind  us ; and  we  drove  through  long,  long,  lonelj' 
valleys  : there  they  lay,  uncultivated  and  uninhabited,  aban- 
doned to  the  browsing  cattle,  which  we  observed  were  of  a 


328 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


beautiful  brown  color,  not  large,  short-honiecl,  clean-limbed, 
lank  and  lively  as  deer.  These  poor  cattle  had  pasturage 
enough  ; but  it  was  greatl}’  encroached  upon,  and  in  some 
parts  wholly  taken  possession  of,  by  the  thistles.  These 
plants  have  here  the  finest  opportunities  to  disperse  their 
seed  and  to  propagate  their  kind  : they  take  up  an  incredible 
space,  which  would  make  pasture-land  enough  for  two  large 
estates.  As  they  are  not  perennial,  they  might,  if  mowed 
down  before  flowering,  be  easily  eradicated. 

However,  after  having  thus  seriously  meditated  an  agri- 
cultural campaign  against  the  thistles,  I must,  to  my  shame, 
admit  they  are  not  altogether  useless.  At  a lonely  fam- 
house  where  we  pulled  up  to  bait,  there  were  also  stopping 
two  Sicilian  noblemen,  who,  on  account  of  some  law-suit, 
were  riding  straiglit  across  the  country  to  Palermo.  'With 
amazement  we  saw  both  of  these  grave  personages  standing 
before  a patch  of  these  thistles,  and  with  their  pocket-knives 
cutting  off  the  tops  of  the  tall  shoots.  Then  holding  their 
prickly  booty  b}’  the  tips  of  their  fingers,  they  peeled  off  the 
rind,  and  devoured  the  inner  part  with  great  satisfaction. 
In  this  way  they  occupied  themselves  a considerable  time, 
while  we  were  refreshing  ourselves  with  wine  (this  time  it 
was  uumixed)  and  bread.  The  vetturino  prepared  for  us 
some  of  this  marrow  of  thistle-stalks,  and  assured  us  that 
it  was  a wholesome,  cooling  food : it  suited  our  taste,  how- 
ever, as  little  as  the  raw  cabbage  at  Segeste. 

Ox  THE  Road,  April  30,  1787. 

Having  reached  the  valle}^  through  which  the  rivulet  of 
St.  Pacio  winds  it  way,  we  found  the  district  consisting  of  a 
reddish-black  and  crumbly  limestone,  many  brooks,  a very 
white  soil,  — a beautiful  valley,  which  the  rivulet  made  ex- 
tremely agreeable.  The  well-compounded,  loamy  soil  is  in 
some  places  twenty  feet  deep,  and  for  the  most  part  of  simi- 
lar quality  throughout.  The  crops  looked  beautiful ; but 
some  of  them  were  not  veiy  clean,  and  all  of  them  very 
backward  as  compared  with  those  on  the  southern  side. 
Here  there  are  the  same  little  dwellings,  and  not  a tree, 
as  was  the  case  immediately  after  leaving  Castro  Giovanni. 
On  the  banks  of  the  river,  plenty  of  pasture-land,  but  sadly 
confined  by  vast  m.^sses  of  thistles.  In  the  gravel  of  the 
river  we  again  found  quartz,  both  simple  and  breccian. 

Molimenti,  quite  a new  village,  wisely  built  in  the  centre 
of  beautiful  fields,  and  on  the  banks  of  the  rivulet  St.  Paolo. 


LETTERS  ERO^kl  ITALY. 


329 


The  wheat  in  its  neighborhood  was  unrivalled : it  will  be 
ready  for  cutting  as  early  as  by  the  20th  of  May.  In  the 
whole  district  I could  not  discover  as  yet  a trace  of  volcanic 
influence : even  the  stream  brings  down  no  pebbles  of  that 
character.  The  soil  is  well  mixed,  lieavy  rather  than  light, 
and  has,  on  the  whole,  a coffee-brown  and  slightly  violet  hue. 
All  the  hills  on  the  left,  which  enclose  the  stream,  are  lime- 
stone, whose  varieties  I had  no  opportunity  (ff  observing. 
They,  however,  as  they  crumble  under  the  influence  of  the 
weather,  are  evidently  the  causes  of  the  great  fertility  that 
marks  the  district  throughout. 

Tuesday,  May  1, 1787. 

Through  a valley,  which,  although  by  nature  it  was  through- 
out alike  destined  to  fertility,  was  unequally  cultivated,  we 
rode  along  very  moodily  because,  among  so  many  pi'ominent 
and  irregular  shapes,  not  one  appeared  to  suit  our  artistic 
designs.  Kuiep  had  sketched  a highly  interesting  outline  ; 
but  because  the  foreground  and  intermediate  space  were 
thoroughly  revolting,  he  had  with  a pleasant  joke  appended 
to  it  a foreground  of  Poussin’s,  which  cost  him  nothing. 
However,  they  made  together  a very  pretty  picture.  How 
many  “picturesque  tours,”  in  all  probability,  contain  half- 
truths  of  the  like  kind. 

Our  courier,  with  the  view  of  soothing  our  grumbling 
humor,  promised  us  a good  inn  for  the  evening.  And,  in 
fact,  he  brought  us  to  a hotel  which  had  been  built  but  a 
few  years  since,  on  the  roadside,  and,  being  at  a consider- 
able distance  from  Catania,  cannot  but  be  right  welcome  to 
all  travellers.  For  our  part,  flnding  ourselves,  after  twelve 
days  of  discomfort,  in  a tolerable  apartment,  we  were  right 
glad  to  be  so  much  at  our  ease  again.  But  we  were  sur- 
prised at  an  inscription  pencilled  on  the  wall  in  beautiful 
English  characters.  The  following  was  its  purport:  “Trav- 
eller, whoever  you  may  be,  be  on  your  guard  against  the  inn 
known  in  Catania  by  the  sign  of  the  Golden  Lion.  It  is 
better  to  fall  into  the  claws  of  all  the  Cyclops,  Sirens,  and 
Scylla  together  than  to  go  there.”  Although  we  at  once 
supposed  that  the  well-meaning  counsellor  had,  no  doubt,  by 
his  mythological  flgures  magnified  the  danger,  we  neverthe- 
less determined  to  keep  out  of  the  reach  of  the  “ Golden 
Lion,”  which  was  thus  proclaimed  to  us  to  be  so  savage  a 
beast.  When,  therefore,  our  muleteer  demanded  of  us 
where  we  would  wish  to  put  up  in  Catania,  we  answered,  any 


330 


LETTERS  FRO:\r  ITALY. 


where  but  at  the  “Golden  Lion!”  Whereupon  he  ven- 
tured to  recommend  us  to  stop  where  he  put  up  his  beasts, 
onl}'  he  said  we  should  have  to  provide  for  ourselves  just  as 
we  had  hitherto  done. 

Towards  Hybla  Major,  pebbles  of  lava  present  them- 
selves, which  the  stream  brings  down  from  the  north.  Over 
the  ferry  you  find  limestone,  which  contains  all  sorts  of 
rubble,  hornstoue,  lava,  and  calx  ; and  then  hardened  vol- 
canic ashes,  covered  over  with  calcareous  tufa.  The  hills 
of  mixed  gravel  continue  till  j’ou  come  near  to  Catania,  at 
and  beyond  which  place  you  find  the  lava  flux  from  ^Ttna. 
You  leave  on  the  left  what  looks  like  a crater.  (Just  under 
Molimeuti  the  peasants  were  pulling  up  the  flax.)  Nature 
loves  a motlej’  garb  ; and  here  you  may  see  how  she  con- 
trives gayly  to  deck  out  the  dark  bluish-gray  laA-a  of  the 
mountains.  A few  seasons  bring  over  it  a moss  of  a high 
yellow  color,  upon  which  a beautiful  red  sedum  grows 
Iu:turiantly,  and  some  other  lovely  violet  flowers.  Tlie 
plantations  of  cactus  and  the  vine-rows  bespfeak  a careful 
cultivation.  Now  immense  streams  of  lava  begin  to  hem  us 
in.  Motta  is  a beautiful  and  striking  rock.  The  beans  are 
like  very  high  shrubs.  The  fields  vary  veiy  much  in  their 
geological  features,  — now  very  gravelly,  now  better  mixed. 

The  vetturino,  who  probably  had  not  for  a long  time  seen 
the  vegetation  of  the  south-eastern  side  of  the  island,  burst 
into  loud  exclamations  about  the  beauty  of  the  crops,  and 
with  self-complaisant  patriotism  demanded  of  us  if  we  ever 
saw  such  in  our  own  country.  Here,  however,  every  thing 
is  sacrificed  to  them : you  see  few  if  any  trees.  But  the 
sight  that  most  pleased  us  was  a young  girl,  of  a splendid 
but  slight  form,  who,  evidently  an  old  acquaintance,  kept 
up  with  the  mule  of  our  vetturino,  chatting  the  while,  and 
spinning  away’  with  as  much  elegance  as  was  possible. 

Now  yellow  tints  begin  to  predominate  in  the  flowers. 
Towards  Misterbianco  the  cactuses  are  again  found  in  the 
hedges  ; but  hedges  entirely  of  this  strangely  grown  plant 
become,  as  you  approach  Catania,  more  and  more  general, 
and  are  even  still  more  beautiful. 


Cataxia,  May  2, 17S7. 

In  our  quarters  we  found  ourselves,  we  must  confess, 
most  uncomfortable.  The  meal,  such  as  our  muleteer  could 
alone  furnish,  was  none  of  the  best.  A fowl  stewed  in  rice 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


331 


would  have  been  tolerable,  but  for  au  immoderate  spice  of 
saffron,  which  made  it  both  yellow  and  unpalatable.  The 
most  abominable  of  bad  beds  had  almost  driven  me  a second 
time  to  bring  out  Hackert’s  leathern  bag,  and  we  therefore 
next  morning  spoke  on  this  subject  to  our  obliging  host. 
He  expressed  his  regret  that  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  pro- 
vide better  for  us  ; “■  but,”  he  said,  “ there  is,  above  there, 
a house  where  strangers  are  well  entertained,  and  have  eveiy 
reason  to  be  satisfied.” 

Saying  tliis,  he  pointed  to  a large  corner  house,  of  which 
the  part  that  was  turned  towards  us  seemed  to  promise  well. 
We  immediately  hurried  over  to  it,  and  found  a very  active 
personage,  who  declared  himself  to  be  a waiter,  and  who, 
in  the  absence  of  the  landlord,  showed  us  an  excellent  bed- 
room, with  a sitting-room  adjoining,  and  assured  us,  at  the 
same  time,  that  we  should  be  well  attended  to.  Without 
delay,  we  demanded,  according  to  our  practice,  what  was  the 
charge  for  dinner,  for  wine,  for  luncheon,  and  other  particu- 
lars. The  answers  were  all  fair ; and  we  hastily  had  our 
trifles  brought  over  to  the  house,  and  arranged  them  in  the 
spacious  and  gilded  buffets.  For  the  first  time  since  we  left 
Palermo,  Kniep  found  au  opportunity  to  spread  out  his 
portfolio,  and  to  arrange  his  drawings,  as  I did  my  notes. 
Then,  delighted  with  our  fine  room,  we  stepped  out  on  the 
balcony  of  the  sitting-room  to  enjoy  the  view.  When  we  had 
done  looking  at  and  extolUng  the  prospect,  we  turned  to 
enter  our  apartment,  and  commence  our  occupations,  when, 
lo  ! over  our  head  was  a large  golden  lion,  regarding  us  with 
a most  threatening  aspect.  Quite  serious  we  looked  for  a 
moment  into  one  another’s  faces,  then  smiled,  and  laughed 
outright.  From  this  moment,  however,  we  began  to  look 
around  us  to  see  whether  we  could  discover  any  of  these 
Homeric  goblins. 

Nothing  of  the  kind  was  to  be  seen.  On  the  contraiy, 
we  found  in  the  sitting-room  a prett}’  young  woman,  who 
was  plaj’ing  about  with  a child,  from  two  to  three  3'ears  old, 
who  stood  suddenly  still  on  being  hastily  scolded  Iw'  the  A'ice- 
laudlord.  “■  Y’ou  must  take  yourself  off!”  he  testily  ex- 
claimed : “ 3’ou  have  no  business  here.”  “ It  is  very  hard,” 
she  rejoined,  “ that  you  drive  me  away  : the  child  is  scarcely 
to  be  pacified  in  the  house  when  you  are  away  ; and  the 
signori  rvill  allow  me,  at  least  while  j’ou  are  present,  to  keep 
the  child  quiet.”  The  husband  made  no  reply,  but  pro- 
ceeded to  drive  her  away : at  the  door  the  child  cried  most 


332 


LETTERS  FRO:\I  ITALY. 


miserably,  and  at  last  we  did  mo.st  heartily  wish  that  the 
pretty  young  madam  had  staid. 

Warned  b}’  the  Englishman,  it  was  no  art  to  see  through 
the  comedy : we  played  the  WeuZmye,  the  Unschuldige;  he. 
however,  with  his  very  loving  paternal  feelings,  prevailed 
very  well.  The  child,  in  fact,  was  evidentl}’  very  fond  of 
him  ; and  probably  the  seeming  mother  had  pinched  him  at 
the  door  to  make  him  cry  so. 

And  so,  too,  with  the  greatest  innocence  possible  she  came 
and  staid  with  him  as  the  man  went  out  to  deliver  for  us  a 
letter  of  inti’oduction  to  the  domestic  chaplain  of  Prince 
Biscari.  She  played  and  to^’ed  with  the  child  till  he  came 
back,  bringing  word  from  the  abb6  that  he  would  come  him- 
self, and  talk  with  us  on  the  matter. 

C ATAXIA, 

Thursday,  May  3,  1787. 

The  abbe,  who  had  come  last  night  and  paid  his  respects 
to  us,  appeared  this  morning  in  good  time,  and  conducted  us 
to  the  palace,  which  is  of  one  story,  and  built  on  a tolerably 
high  socle.  First  of  all  we  visited  the  museum,  where  there 
is  a large  collection  of  marble  and  bronze  figures,  vases,  and 
all  sorts  of  such  like  antiques.  Here  we  had  once  more  an 
opportunity  of  enlarging  our  knowledge  ; and  the  trunk  of  a 
Jupiter,  with  which  I was  alread}’  acquainted  through  a cast 
in  Tischbein’s  studio,  particular^  ravished  me.  It  possesses 
merits  far  higher  than  I am  able  to  estimate.  An  inmate  of 
the  house  gave  us  all  necessary  historical  information.  After 
this  we  passedrtnto  a spacious  and  lofty  saloon.  The  many 
chairs  around  and  against  the  walls  indicated  that  a numer- 
ous company  was  often  assembled  here.  AVe  seated  our- 
selves in  hope  of  a favorable  reception.  Soon  afterwards 
two  ladies  entered,  and  walked  several  times  up  and  down 
the  room.  From  time  to  time  they  spoke  to  each  other. 
AVhen  they  observed  us,  the  abbe  rose  : 1 did  the  same  : and 
we  both  bowed.  I asked,  “ AA'ho  are  they?”  and  learned 
that  the  younger  was  the  daughter  of  the  prince,  but  the 
elder  a noble  lady  of  Catania.  We  resumed  our  seats,  while 
they  continued  to  walk  up  and  down  as  people  do  in  a mar- 
ket-place. 

AVe  were  now  conducted  to  the  prince,  who  (as  I had  been 
already  given  to  understand)  honored  me  with  a singular 
mark  of  his  eonfidenee  in  showing  me  his  collection  of  coins, 
since,  by  such  acts  of  kindness,  both  his  father  and  himself 
had  lost  many  a rare  specimen  ; and  so  his  general  good 


LETTEES  FROM  ITALY. 


333 


nfiture,  and  wish  to  oblige,  had  been  naturally  much  con- 
tracted. On  this  occasion  I probably  appeared  a little  better 
informed  than  formerly,  for  I had  learned  something  from 
the  examination  of  Pi’ince  Torremuzza’s  collection,  f again 
contrived  to  enlarge  my  knowledge,  being  greatly  helped  by 
M’inckelmann’s  never  failing  clews,  which  safely  led  the  way 
through  all  the  different  epochs  of  art.  The  prince,  who 
was  well  informed  in  all  these  matters,  when  he  saw  that  he 
had  before  him  not  a connoisseur,  but  an  attentive  amateur, 
willingly  informed  me  of  every  particular  that  I found  it 
necessary  to  ask  about. 

After  having  given  to  these  matters  considerable  time,  but 
still  far  less  than  they  deserved,  we  were  on  the  point  of 
taking  our  leave,  when  the  prince  conducted  us  to  the  prin- 
cess, his  mother,  in  whose  apartments  the  smaller  works  of 
art  are  to  be  seen. 

"\Ye  found  a venerable,  naturally  noble  lady,  who  received 
us  with  the  words,  “ Pray,  look  round  my  room,  gentlemen  : 
here  you  still  see  all  that  my  late  husband  collected  and 
arranged  for  me.  This  I owe  to  the  affection  of  my  son, 
who  not  only  allows  me  still  to  reside  in  his  best  room,  but 
has  even  forbidden  the  least  thing  to  be  taken  away  or 
removed  that  his  late  father  purchased  for  me  and  chose  a 
place  for.  Thus  I enjoy  a double  pleasure  : not  onh'  have  I 
been  able  these  many  years  to  live  in  my  usual  ways  and 
habits,  but  have  also,  as  formerly,  the  opportunity  to  see 
and  form  the  acquaintance  of  those  worthy  strangers  who 
come  hither  from  widely  distant  places  to  examine  our  treas- 
ures.” 

She  thereupon,  with  her  own  hands,  opened  for  us  the 
glass  case  in  which  the  works  in  amber  were  preserved. 
Sicilian  amber  is  distinguished  from  the  northern  by  its  pass- 
ing from  the  transparent  and  non-transparent  — from  the 
wax  and  the  honey-colored  — through  all  possible  shades  of 
a deep  yellow,  to  the  most  beautiful  hyacinthian  red.  In  the 
case  there  were  urns,  cups,  and  other  things,  for  executing 
which,  large  pieces  of  a marvellous  size  must  have  been  ne- 
cessary : for  such  objects,  and  also  for  cut  shells  such  as 
are  executed  at  Trapani,  and  also  for  exquisitely  manu- 
factured articles  in  ivory,  the  princess  had  an  especial  taste, 
and  about  some  of  them  she  had  amusing  stories  to  tell. 
The  prince  called  our  attention  to  those  of  more  solid  value  ; 
and  so  several  hours  slipped  away  ; not,  however,  without 
either  amusement  or  edification. 


334 


I.ETTERS  FROM  iTAEY. 


In  the  course  of  our  conversation,  the  princess  discovered 
that  we  were  Germans  : she  therefore  asked  us  after  Riede- 
sel,  Bartels,  and  Miinter,  all  of  whom  she  knew,  and  whose 
several  characters  she  seemed  well  able  to  appreciate  and  to 
discriminate.  We  parted  fi'om  her  reluctantly  ; and  she,  too. 
seemed  loath  to  bid  us  farewell.  An  insular  life  has  in  it 
something  very  peculiar  to  be  thus  excited  and  refreshed  by 
none  but  passing  sympathies. 

From  the  palace  the  abbe  led  us  to  the  Benedictine  ]Mon- 
astery,  and  took  us  to  the  cell  of  a brother  of  the  order, 
whose  reserved  and  melauchol}'  expression  (though  he  was 
not  of  more  than  middle  age)  promised  but  little  of  cheer- 
ful conversation.  He  was,  however,  the  skilful  musician 
who  alone  could  manage  the  enormous  organ  in  the  church 
of  this  monastery.  When  he  had  rather  guessed  than  waited 
to  hear  our  request,  he  complied  with  it  in  silence.  We  pro- 
ceeded to  the  very  spacious  church,  where,  sitting  down  at 
the  glorious  instrument,  he  made  the  softest  notes  whisper 
through  its  remotest  corners,  or  filled  the  whole  of  it  with  the 
crash  of  the  loudest  tones. 

If  you  had  not  previously  seen  the  organist,  you  would 
fancy  that  none  but  a giant  could  exercise  such  power : as. 
however,  we  were  already  acquainted  with  his  personal  ap- 
pearance, we  only  wondered  that  the  necessary  exertion  had 
not  long  since  worn  him  out. 

Soon  after  dinner  our  abbe  arrived  with  a carriage,  and 
proposed  to  show  us  a distant  part  of  the  city.  Upon  get- 
ting in  we  had  a strange  dispute  about  precedence.  Having 
entered  first,  I had  seated  myself  on  the  left-hand  side.  As 
he  ascended,  he  begged  of  me  to  move,  and  to  take  the  right- 
hand  seat.  I begged  him  not  to  stand  on  such  ceremony. 
“ Pardon  me,”  he  replied,  “ and  let  us  sit  as  I propose  : for. 
if  I take  my  place  on  your  right,  everybody  will  believe  that 
I am  takiug’a  ride  with  you  ; but  if  I sit  on  your  left,  it  is 
thereby  indicated  that  }*ou  are  riding  with  me.  — that  is.  with 
him  who  has,  in  the  prince’s  name,  to  show  you  the  city.” 
To  this  nothing  could,  of  course,  be  objected  ; and  it  was 
settled  accordingljn 

We  drove  up  the  streets  where  the  lava,  which  in  1699 
destroyed  a great  part  of  this  city,  remains  visible  to  this 
day.  The  solid  lava  had  been  worked  like  auj'  other  rock ; 
streets  had  even  been  marked  out  on  its  surface,  and 
partly  built.  I placed  under  the  seat  of  our  carriage  an  uu- 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


335 


doubted  specimen  of  the  molten  rock,  remembering,  that  just 
before  my  departure  from  Germany  the  dispute  had  arisen 
about  the  volcanic  origin  of  basalt.  And  I did  so  in  many 
other  places,  in  order  to  have  several  varieties. 

However,  if  natives  had  not  proved  themselves  the  friends 
of  their  own  land,  — had  they  not  even  labored,  either  for  the 
sake  of  profit  or  of  science,  to  bring  together  whatever  is 
remarkable  in  this  neighborhood,  — the  traveller  would  have 
had  to  trouble  himself  long  and  to  little  purpose.  lu  Na- 
ples I had  received  much  information  from  the  lava  dealer, 
but  still  more  information  got  I here  from  the  Chevalier  Gio- 
eui.  In  his  rich  and  excellentlj'  arranged  museum  I learned 
more  or  less  correctly  to  recognize  the  various  phenomena  of 
the  lava  of  Aitna : the  basalt  at  its  foot,  stones  in  a changed 
state,  — every  thing,  in  fact,  was  pointed  out  to  me  in  the 
most  friendly  manner.  What  I saw  to  be  wondered  at  most 
were  some  zeolites  from  the  rugged  rocks  which  rise  out  of 
the  sea  below  Jaci. 

As  we  inquired  of  the  chevalier  which  was  the  best  course 
to  take  in  order  to  ascend  AUtna,  he  would  not  hear  of  so 
dangerous  au  attempt  as  trying  to  reach  the  summit,  espe- 
cialh' in  the  present  season  of  the  year.  “Generally,”  he 
observed,  begging  my  pardon,  however,  “ the  strangers  who 
come  here  think  far  too  lightly  of  the  matter : we,  however, 
who  are  neighbors  of  the  mountain,  are  quite  contented  if, 
twice  in  our  life,  we  hit  on  a very  good  opportunity  to  reach 
the  summit.  Brydone,  who  was  the  first  to  kindle  by  his  de- 
scription a desire  to  see  this  fiery  peak,  did  not  himself  ascend 
it.  Count  Borch  leaves  his  readers  in  uncertainty  ; but,  in 
fact,  even  he  ascended  only  to  a certain  height : and  the 
same  may  be  said  of  many  others.  At  present  the  snow 
comes  down  far  too  low,  aucl  presents  insuperable  obstacles. 
If  you  would  take  my  advice,  you  will  ride  very  early  some 
morning  for  Monte  Rosso,  and  be  contented  with  ascending 
this  height.  From  it  you  will  enjoy  a splendid  view  of 
iEtna,  and  at  the  same  time  have  au  opportunity  of  observ- 
ing the  old  lava,  w'hich,  bursting  out  from  that  point  in  1697, 
unhappily  poured  down  upon  the  city.  The  view  is  glorious 
and  distinct : it  is  best  to  listen  to  a'  description  for  all  the 
rest.” 

Catania, 

Friday,  May  4,  1787. 

Following  this  good  counsel,  we  set  out  early  on  a mule ; 
and,  continually  looking  behind  us  on  our  way,  reached  at 


336 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


last  the  region  of  the  lava,  as  yet  unchanged  by  time. 
Jagged  lumps  and  slabs  stared  us  in  the  face,  among  which 
a chance  road  had  been  tracked  out  b}'  the  beasts.  AYe 
halted  on  the  first  considerable  eminence.  Kniep  sketched 
with  wonderful  precision  what  lay  before  us.  The  masses 
of  lava  in  the  fore-ground,  the  double  peak  of  Monte  Rosso 
on  the  left,  right  before  us  the  woods  of  Xicolosi,  out  of 
which  rose  the  snow-capped  and  slightly  smoking  summit. 
AVe  drew  near  to  the  Red  Mountain.  I ascended  it.  It  is 
composed  entirely  of  red  volcanic  rubbish,  ashes,  and  stones, 
heaped  together.  It  would  have  been  very  easy  to  go  round 
the  mouth  of  the  crater,  had  not  a violent  and  stormy  east 
Avind  made  ni}'  footing  unsteady.  When  I wished  to  go  a 
little  Avay,  1 was  obliged  to  take  off  my  cloak  ; and  then  my 
hat  was  every  moment  in  danger  of  being  blown  into  the 
crater,  and  I after  it.  On  this  account  I sat  down  in  oixler 
to  recover  myself,  and  to  take  a view  of  the  surrounding  ob- 
jects ; but  even  this  position  did  not  help  me  at  all.  The 
wind  came  direct  from  the  east,  OA’er  the  glorious  laud,  which 
far  and  near,  and  reaching  to  the  sea,  lav  below  me.  The 
outstretched  strand,  from  Messina  to  Syracuse,  with  its  bays 
and  headlands,  Avas  before  m3’  eyes,  either  quite  open,  or  else 
(though  only  in  a fcAV  small  points)  covered  with  rocks. 
"When  I came  down  quite  numbed,  Kniep.  under  the  shelter 
of  the  hill,  had  passed  his  time  AA'ell,  and  Avith  a feAA-  light 
lines  on  the  paper  had  perpetuated  the  memory  of  what  the 
wild  storm  had  alloAA-ed  me  scarcely  to  see,  and  still  less  to 
fix  permanentl}’  in  m3'  mind. 

Returned  once  more  to  the  jaws  of  the  Golden  Lion,  we 
found  the  AA’aiter,  whom  we  had  with  difficulty  prcA'ented  from 
accompanying  us.  He  praised  our  prudence  in  giA'ing  up  the 
thought  of  visiting  the  summit,  but  urgentlv  recommended 
for  the  next  da3’  a Avalk  In’  the  sea  to  the  rocks  of  .laci.  — it 
was  the  most  delightful  pleasure-trip  that  could  be  made 
from  Catania  ; but  it  would  be  well  to  take  something  to  eat 
and  drink  AA-ith  us,  and  also  utensils  for  AA  aimiug  our  viands. 
His  Avife  offered  herself  to  perform  this  dutv.  MoreoA'er.  he 
spoke  of  the  jubilee  there  AA'as  when  some  Englishmen  hired  a 
boat,  Avith  a band  of  music  to  accompauv  them,  which 
made  it  more  delightful  than  it  AA’as  possible  to  form  an3’ 
idea  of. 

The  rocks  of  Jaci  had  a strong  attraction  for  me : I had  a 
strong  desire  to  knock  off  from  them  as  fine  zeolites  as  I had 
seen  in  Gioeni’s  possession.  It  was  true  we  might  reduce 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


337 


the  scale  of  the  affair,  and  decline  the  attendance  of  the 
wife ; but  the  warning  of  the  Englishman  prevailed  over 
every  other  consideration.  We  gave  up  all  thoughts  of  zeo- 
lites, and  prided  ourselves  not  a little  on  this  act  of  self- 
denial. 

Catania, 

Saturday,  May  5,  1787. 

Our  clerical  companion  has  not  failed  us  to-day.  He  con- 
ducted us^to  some  remains  of  ancient  architecture  ; in  exam- 
ining which,  however,  the  visitor  needs  to  bring  with  him  no 
ordinary  talent  of  restoration.  We  saw  the  remains  of  the 
great  cisterns  of  a naumachy,  and  other  similar  ruins,  which, 
however,  have  been  filled  up  and  depressed  through  the  many 
successive  destructions  of  the  city  by  lava,  earthquakes,  and 
wars.  It  is  only  those  who  are  most  accurately  acquainted 
with  the  architecture  of  the  ancients  that  can  now  derive 
either  pleasure  or  instruction  from  seeing  them. 

The  kind  abbe  engaged  to  make  our  excuses  for  not  wait- 
ing  again  on  the  prince,  and  we  parted  with  lively  expres- 
sions of  mutual  gratitude  and  good  will. 

Taormina, 
Sunday,  May  6,  1787. 

God  be  thanked  that  all  that  we  have  here  seen  this  day 
has  been  already  ampl}"  described,  but  still  more,  that  Kniep 
has  resolved  to  spend  the  whole  of  to-morrow  in  the  open 
air,  taking  sketches.  When  you  have  ascended  to  the  top 
of  the  wall  of  rocks  which  rise  precipitousl}'  at  no  great 
distance  from  the  sea,  j’ou  find  two  peaks,  connected  by  a 
semicircle.  Whatever  shape  this  may  have  had  originally 
from  Nature,  has  been  hel]ied  by  the  hand  of  man,  which  has 
formed  out  of  it  an  amphitheatre  for  spectators.  Walls  and 
other  buildings  have  furnished  the  necessary  passages  and 
rooms.  Right  across,  at  the  foot  of  the  semicircular  range 
of  seats,  the  scene  was  built ; and  by  this  means  the  two 
rocks  were  joined,  and  thus  a most  enormous  work  of  nature 
and  art  was  complete. 

Now,  sitting  down  at  the  spot  where  formerly  sat  the  up- 
permost spectators,  you  confess  at  once  that  never  did  audi- 
ence, in  ail}'  theatre,  have  before  them  such  a spectacle  as 
you  there  behold.  On  the  right,  and  on  high  rocks  at  the 
side,  castles  tower  in  the  air  : farther  on,  the  citj'  lies  below 
you  ; and  although  its  buildings  are  all  of  modern  date,  still, 
similar  ones,  no  doubt,  stood  of  old  on  the  same  site.  After 


338 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


this  the  eye  falls  on  the  whole  of  the  long  ridge  of  vEtna ; 
then  on  the  left  it  catches  a view  of  the  seashore,  as  far  as 
Catania,  and  even  Syracuse  ; and  then  the  wide  and  exten- 
sive view  is  closed  bj'  the  immense  smoking  volcano,  but 
not  horribly,  for  the  atmosphere,  with  its  softening  effect, 
makes  it  look  more  distant  and  milder  than  it  really  is. 

If  now  you  turn  from  this  view  towards  the  passage  run- 
ning at  the  back  of  the  spectators,  you  have  on  the  left  the 
whole  wall  of  the  rocks  between  which  and  the  sea  runs 
the  road  to  Messina.  And  then,  again,  you  behold  vast 
groups  of  rocky  ridges  in  the  sea  itself,  with  the  coast  of 
Calabria  in  the  far  distance,  which  only  a fixed  and  atentive 
gaze  can  distinguish  from  the  clouds  rising  rapidly  from  it. 

We  descended  towards  the  theatre,  and  tarried  a while 
among  its  ruins,  on  which  an  accomplished  architect  would 
do  well  to  employ,  at  least  on  paper,  his  talent  of  restoration. 
After  this  I attempted  to  make  a way  for  mj'self  through  the 
gardens  to  the  city.  But  I soon  learned  by  experience  what 
an  impenetrable  bulwark  is  formed  b}'  a hedge  of  agaves 
planted  close  together.  Y"ou  can  see  through  their  interla- 
cing leaves,  and  you  think,  therefore,  it  will  be  easj"  to  force 
a way  through  them  ; but  the  prickles  on  their  leaves  are 
very  sensible  obstacles.  If  you  step  on  these  colossal  leaves, 
in  the  hope  that  they  will  bear  j'ou,  they  break  off  suddenly  ; 
and  so,  instead  of  getting  out,  you  fall  into  the  arras  of  the 
next  plant.  When,  however,  at  last  we  had  wound  our  way 
out  of  the  labyrinth,  we  found  but  little  to  enjo^'  in  the  city ; 
though  from  the  neighboring  country  we  felt  it  impossible  to 
part  before  sunset.  Infinitely  beautiful  was  it  to  observe 
how  this  countiyside,  of  which  every  point  had  its  interest, 
was  gradually  enveloped  in  darkness. 

Below  Taormina;  on  the  seashore, 
Monday,  May  7,  1787. 

Kniep,  whom,  b}^  good  luck,  I brought  with  me  hither,  can- 
not be  praised  enough  for  relieving  me  of  a burden  which 
would  have  been  intolerable  to  me,  and  which  goes  direct!}' 
counter  to  my  nature,  tie  has  gone  to  sketch  in  detail  the 
objects  of  which  he  took  a general  survey  yesterday.  He 
will  have  to  point  his  pencil  many  a time,  and  I know  not 
when  he  will  have  finished.  I shall  have  it  in  my  power  to 
see  all  these  sights  again.  At  first  I wished  to  ascend  the 
height  with  him  ; but  then,  again.  I was  tempted  to  remain 
here.  I sought  a corner  like  the  bird  about  to  build  its  nest. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


330 


In  a sorry  and  neglected  peasant’s  garden,  I have  seated  my- 
self on  the  triuik  of  an  orange-tree,  and  lost  myself  in  reve- 
ries. Orange-branches  on  which  a traveller  can  sit,  sounds 
rather  strangely  ; but  seems  quite  natural  when  one  knows 
that  the  orange-tree,  left  to  nature,  sends  out,  at  a little  dis- 
tance from  the  root,  twigs  which  in  time  become  decided 
branches. 

And  so,  thinking  over  again  the  plan  of  the  “ Nausicaa,”  I 
formed  the  idea  of  a dramatic  concentration  of  the  “ Odys- 
sey.” I think  the  scheme  is  not  impracticable,  only  it  will 
be  indispensable  to  keep  clearl}"  in  view  the  difference  of  the 
drama  and  the  epopee. 

Kniep  has  come  down,  quite  happy  and  delighted,  and  has 
brought  back  with  him  two  large  sheets  of  drawing-paper, 
covered  with  the  clearest  outlines.  Both  will  contribute  to  pre- 
serve in  my  mind  a perpetual  memory  of  these  glorious  days. 

It  must  not  be  left  unrecorded,  that  on  this  shore,  and 
beneath  the  clearest  sky,  we  looked  around  us,  from  a little 
balcony,  and  saw  roses,  and  heard  the  nightiugales.  These 
we  are  told  sing  here  during  at  least  six  mouths  of  the  twelve. 

From  Memory. 

The  activity  of  the  clever  artist  who  accompanies  me,  and 
my  own  more  desultory  and  feeble  efforts,  having  now  assured 
me  the  possession  of  well-selected  sketches  of  the  country 
and  its  most  remarkable  points  (which,  either  in  outline,  or, 
if  I like,  in  well-finished  paintings,  will  be  mine  for  ever) , 
I yielded  all  the  more  to  an  impulse  which  has  been  daily 
growing  in  strength.  I have  felt  an  irresistible  impulse  to 
animate  the  glorious  scenes  by  which  I am  surrounded,  — 
the  sea,  the  island,  the  heavens,  — with  appropriate  poetical 
beings,  and  here,  in  and  out  of  this  locality,  to  finish  a com- 
position in  a tone  and  spirit  such  as  I have  not  yet  produced. 
The  clear  sky,  the  smell  of  the  sea,  the  halo  which  merges, 
as  it  were,  into  one,  the  sky,  the  headlands,  and  the  sea,  — 
all  these  afforded  nourishment  to  my  purpose  ; and  whilst  I 
wandered  in  those  beautiful  gardens,  between  blossoming 
hedges  of  oleander,  and  through  arbors  of  fruit-bearing 
orange  and  citron  trees,  and  between  other  trees  and 
shrubs  which  were  unknown  to  me,  I felt  the  strange 
influence  in  the  most  agreeable  way  possible. 

Convinced  that  for  me  there  could  be  no  better  commentary 
on  the  “Odyssey”  than  even  this  very  neighborhood,  I 
purchased  a copy,  and  read  it,  after  my  own  fashion,  with 


340 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


incredible  interest.  But  I ^Tas  also  excited  bj'  it  to  produce 
something  of  my  own,  which,  strange  as  it  seemed  at  the  first 
look,  became  dearer  and  dearer,  and  at  last  took  entire  pos- 
session of  me.  For  I entertained  the  idea  of  treating  the 
story  of  Nausicaa  as  the  subject  of  a tragedy. 

It  is  impossible  for  me  even  to  say  what  I should  have  been 
able  to  make  of  it,  but  I had  quite  settled  the  plan  in  my 
mind.  The  leading  idea  was  to  paint  Nausicaa  as  an  amia- 
ble and  excellent  maiden  who,  wooed  by  many  suitors,  but 
conscious  of  no  preference,  coldly  rejected  all  advances,  but 
falling  in  love  with  a remarkable  stranger,  suddeuh'  alters 
her  conduct,  and  compromises  herself  by  an  over-hasty 
avowal  of  her  affection,  and  consequently  gives  rise  to  a 
truly  tragic  situation.  This  simple  fable  might,  I thought, 
be  rendered  highly  interesting  by  an  abundance  of  subordi- 
nate motives,  and  especially  by  the  naval  and  insular  charac- 
ter of  the  locality,  and  of  the  personages  where  and  among 
whom  the  scene  would  be  laid,  and  by  the  peculiar  tone  it 
would  thence  assume. 

The  first  act  began  with  the  game  at  ball.  The  unexpected 
acquaintance  is  made : the  scruple  to  lead  him  herself  into 
the  city  is  alreadv  the  harbinger  of  her  love. 

The  second  act  unfolds  the  characters  of  the  household 
of  Alcinous,  and  of  the  suitors,  and  ends  with  the  arrival  of 
Ulysses. 

The  third  is  devoted  entirely  to  exhibiting  the  greatness 
and  merits  of  the  new-comer : and  I hoped  to  be  able,  in  the 
course  of  the  dialogue  (which  was  to  bring  out  the  history 
of  his  adventures) , to  produce  a trulj"  artistic  and  agreeable 
effect  by  representing  the  various  ways  in  which  this  story 
was  received  bj"  his  several  hearers.  During  the  narrative, 
the  passions  were  to  be  heightened,  and  Nausicaa’s  lively 
sympatliy  with  the  stranger  to  be  thrown  out  more  and  more 
by  confiictiug  feelings. 

In  the  fourth  act,  Ulysses  (off  the  scene)  gives  convincing 
proofs  of  his  valor ; while  the  women  remain,  and  give  full 
scope  to  their  likings,  their  hopes,  and  all  other  tender  emo- 
tions. The  high  favor  in  which  the  stranger  stands  with  all, 
makes  it  impossible  for  Nausicaa  to  restrain  her  own  feelings, 
and  she  thus  becomes  irreparably  compromised  with  her  own 
people.  Uh’sses.  who,  partly  innocent,  partly  to  blame,  is 
the  cause  of  all  this,  now  announces  his  intention  to  depart ; 
and  nothing  remains  for  the  unhappy  Nausicaa,  but  in  the 
fifth  act  to  seek  for  an  end  of  existence. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


341 


In  this  composition  there  was  nothing  but  what  I would 
have  been  able  to  depict  from  nature  after  mj^  own  experi- 
ence. Even  while  travelling  — even  in  peril  — to  excite  fa- 
vorable feelings,  which,  although  they  did  not  end  tragicall}", 
might  yet  prove  painful  enough,  and  perhaps  dangerous,  and 
would,  at  all  e^■ents,  leave  deep  wounds  behind  ; even  the 
su[)posed  accidents  of  describing  in  lively  colors,  for  the 
entertainment  of  others,  objects  observed  at  a great  distance 
from  home,  travelling  adventurers  and  chances  of  life  ; to 
be  looked  upon  by  the  young  as  a demigod,  but  b}'  the  more 
sedate  as  a talker  of  rhodomontade,  and  to  meet  now  with 
unexpected  favor,  and  now  with  unexpected  rebuffs,  — all 
this  caused  me  to  feel  so  great  an  attachment  to  this  plan, 
that,  in  thinking  of  it,  I dreamed  away  all  the  time  of  my  stay 
at  Palermo,  and,  indeed,  of  all  the  rest  of  my  Sicilian  tour. 
It  was  this  that  made  me  care  little  for  all  the  inconvenience 
and  discomfort  I met  with  ; for,  on  this  classic  ground,  a 
poetic  vein  had  taken  possession  of  me,  causing  all  I saw, 
experienced,  or  observed,  to  be  taken  aud  regarded  in  a 
joyous  mood. 

After  my  usual  habit,  good  or  bad,  I wrote  down  little  or 
nothing  of  the  play  ; but  worked  in  my  mind  most  of  it  with 
all  the  minutest  detail.  And  there,  in  my  mind,  pushed  out 
of  thought  by  many  subsequent  distractions,  it  has  remained 
until  this  moment,  when,  however,  I can  recollect  nothing 
but  a very  faint  idea  of  it. 


' Tuesday,  May  8,  1787. 

On  tlie  road  to  Messina. 

High  limestone  rocks  on  the  left.  They  become  more 
deeply  colored  as  you  advance,  and  form  many  beautiful 
caves.  Presently  there  commences  a sort  of  rock  which 
may  be  called  clay  slate,  or  sandstone  (graywacke).  In 
the  brooks  you  now  meet  pebbles  of  granite.  The  jmllow 
apples  of  the  solanum,  the  red  flowers  of  the  oleander,  give 
beauty'  to  the  landscape.  The  little  stream  of  Nisi  brings 
down  with  it  mica-pelibles,  as  do  also  all  the  streams  we 
reached  afterwards. 


"Wednesday,  May  9,  1787. 

Beaten  by  a stormy  east  wind,  we  rode  between  the  raging 
sea  on  the  right,  and  the  wall  of  rocks  from  the  top  of 
which  we  were  looking  down  yesterday  ; but  this  day  w'e 
have  been  continually  at  wuar  with  the  water.  We  had  to 


342 


LETTERS  FROU  ITALY. 


cross  innumerable  brooks,  of  which  the  largest  bears  the 
honorable  title  of  river.  However,  these  streams,  as  well 
as  the  gravel  which  they  bring  down  with  them,  were  easier 
to  buffet  with  than  the  sea,  which  was  raging  violently,  and 
at  many  places  dashed  right  over  the  road,  against  the  rocks, 
which  threw  back  the  thick  spray  on  the  travellers.  It  was 
a glorious  sight,  and  its  rarity  made  us  quite  ready  to  put 
up  with  all  its  inconvenience. 

At  the  same  time  there  was  no  lack  of  objects  for  the 
mineralogical  observer.  Enormous  masses  of  limestone,  un- 
dermined by  the  wind  and  waves,  fall  from  time  to  time  : 
the  softer  particles  are  worn  away  by  the  continual  motion 
of  the  waves,  while  the  harder  substances  imbedded  in  them 
are  left  behind  ; and  so  the  whole  strand  is  strewed  with 
variegated  flints  verging  on  the  hornstone.  I selected  and 
carried  off  many  a specunen. 


Messexa, 

Thursday,  May  10,  1787. 

And  so  at  last  we  aiTived  in  Messina,  where,  as  we  knew 
of  no  lodging,  we  made  up  our  minds  to  pass  the  first  night 
at  the  quarters  of  our  vetturiuo,  and  look  out  for  a more 
comfortable  habitation  in  the  morning.  In  consequence  of 
this  resolution,  our  first  entrance  gave  us  the  terrible  idea 
of  entering  a ruined  cit}^ ; for,  during  a whole  quarter  of 
an  hour  as  we  rode  along,  we  passed  ruin  after  ruin,  before 
we  reached  the  auberge,  which,  being  the  only  new  building 
that  has  sprung  up  in  this  quarter,  opens  to  you  from  its 
first-story  window  a view  of  nothing  but  a rugged  waste  of 
ruins.  Beyond  the  circle  of  the  stable-yard  not  a living 
being  of  any  kind  was  to  be  seen.  During  the  night  the 
stillness  was  frightful.  The  doors  would  neither  bolt  nor 
even  close.  There  was  no  more  provision  here  for  the  enter- 
tainment of  human  guests  than  at  ani'  other  of  the  similar 
posting-stations : however,  we  slept  very  comfortabh’  on 
a mattress  which  our  vetturiuo  took  away  from  beneath  the 
very  body  of  our  host. 

Friday,  May  11,  1787. 

To-day  our  worthy  muleteer  left  us,  and  a good  largesse 
rewarded  him  for  his  attentive  services.  AVe  parted  veiy 
amicably,  after  he  had  first  procured  us  a servant  to  take 
us  at  once  to  tlie  best  inn  in  the  place,  and  afterwards  to 
show  us  whate\  er  was  at  all  remarkable  in  Messina.  Our 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


343 


first  host,  in  order  that  his  wish  to  get  rid  of  us  might  be 
gratified  as  quickly  as  possible,  helped  to  carry  our  boxes 
and  other  packages  to  a pleasant  lodging  nearer  to  the  in- 
habited portion  of  the  city,  — that  is  to  say,  beyond  the  city 
itself.  The  following  description  will  give  some  idea  of  it. 
The  terrible  calamity  which  visited  Messina,  and  swept  away 
twelve  thousand  of  its  inhabitants,  did  not  leave  behind  it 
a single  dwelling  for  the  thirty  thousand  who  survived. 
Most  of  the  houses  were  entirely  thrown  down  : the  cracked 
and  shaking  walls  of  the  others  made  them  quite  unsafe  to 
live  in.  On  the  extensive  meads,  therefore,  to  the  north 
of  Messina,  a city  of  planks  was  hastily  erected,  of  wdiich 
any  one  will  quickly  form  an  idea  who  has  ever  seen  the 
Edmerberg  at  Frankfort  during  the  fair,  or  passed  through 
the  market-place  at  Leipzig ; for  all  the  retail  houses  and 
work-shops  are  open  towards  the  street,  and  the  chief  busi- 
ness is  carried  on  in  front  of  them.  Therefore,  there  are 
but  few  of  the  larger  houses  even  that  are  particularly  well 
closed  against  publicity.  Thus  they  have  been  living  for 
three  years  ; and  the  habits  engendered  by  such  booth-like, 
hut-like,  and,  indeed,  tent-like  dwellings,  has  had  a decided 
influence  on  the  character  of  the  occupants.  The  horror 
caused  by  this  unparalleled  event,  the  dread  of  its  recur- 
rence, impels  them  with  light-hearted  cheerfulness  to  enjoy 
to  the  utmost  the  passing  moment.  A dreadful  expectation 
of  a fresh  calamity  was  excited  on  the  21st  of  April  — only 
twenty  da3's  ago,  that  is  — by  an  earthquake  which  again 
sensibly  shook  the  ground.  We  were  showm  a small  church 
where  a multitude  of  people  were  crowded  together  at  the 
veiy  moment,  and  perceived  the  trembling.  Some  persons 
who  were  present  at  the  time  do  not  appear  even  3'et  to  have 
recovered  from  their  fright. 

In  seeking  out  and  visiting  these  spots,  wm  were  accom- 
panied by  a friendly  consul,  who  spontaneously  put  himself 
to  much  trouble  on  our  account, — a kindness  to  be  grate- 
fully acknowdedged  in  this  wilderness  more  than  in  any  other 
place.  At  the  same  time,  having  learned  that  we  were  soon 
about  to  leave,  he  informed  us  that  a French  merchantman 
was  on  the  point  of  sailing  for  Naples.  The  news  was 
doubl}'  welcome,  as  the  flag  of  France  is  a protection  against 
the  pirates. 

We  made  our  kind  cicerone  aware  of  our  desire  to  ex- 
amine the  inside  of  one  of  the  larger  (though-  still  one-sto- 
ried) huts,  and  to  see  their  plain  and  extemporized  econom^w 


344 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


Just  at  this  moment  we  were  joined  by  an  agi’eeable  pei’son, 
who  presently  described  himself  to  be  a teacher  of  French. 
After  finishing  our  walk,  the  consul  made  known  to  him  our 
wfish  to  look  at  one  of  these  buildings,  and  requested  him 
to  take  us  home  with  him  and  show  us  his. 

AVe  entered  the  hut,  of  which  the  sides  and  roof  consisted 
alike  of  planks.  The  impression  it  left  on  the  eye  was 
exactly  that  of  one  of  the  booths  in  a fair,  where  wild  beasts 
or  other  curiosities  are  exhibited.  The  timber-work  of  the 
walls  and  the  roof  was  quite  open.  A green  curtain  divided 
off  the  front  room,  which  was  not  covered  with  deals,  but 
the  natural  floor  was  left  just  as  in  a tent.  There  were 
some  chairs  and  a table,  but  no  other  article  of  domestic 
furniture.  The  space  was  lighted  from  above  by  the  open- 
ings which  had  been  accidentally  left  in  the  roofing.  We 
stood  talking  together  for  some  time,  while  I contemplated 
the  green  curtain,  and  the  roof  within,  which  was  visible  over  • 
it,  when  all  of  a sudden,  from  the  other  side  of  the  curtain, 
two  lovely  girls’  heads,  black-eyed  and  black-haired,  peeped 
over,  full  of  curiosity,  but  vanished  again  as  soon  as  they 
saw  they  were  perceived.  However,  upon  being  asked  for 
by  the  consul,  after  the  lapse  of  just  so  much  time  as  was 
necessary  to  adorn  themselves,  .the}'  came  forward,  and  with 
their  well-dressed  and  neat  little  bodies  crept  before  the 
green  tapestiy.  From  their  questions  we  clearly  perceived 
that  they  looked  upon  us  as  fabulous  beings  from  another 
world,  in  M'hich  most  amiable  delusion  our  answers  must 
have  gone  far  to  confirm  them.  The  consul  gave  a merry 
description  of  our  singular  appearance : the  conversation 
was  so  very  agreeable,  that  we  found  it  hard  to  part  with 
them.  Not  until  we  had  got  out  of  the  door,  it  occurred 
to  us  that  we  had  not  seen  the  inner  rooms,  and,  being 
entirely  taken  up  with  its  fair  inhabitants,  had  forgotten  all 
about  the  construction  of  the  house. 


Messixa, 

Saturday,  ^lay  12, 17S7. 

Among  other  things,  we  were  told  by  the  consul,  that 
although  it  was  not  indispensably  necessary,  still  it  would 
be  as  well  to  pay  our  respects  to  the  governor,  a strange  old 
man,  who,  by  his  humors  and  prejudices,  might  as  readily 
injure  as  benefit  us  : that  it  always  told  in  his  (the  consul's) 
favor  if  he  introduced  distinguished  personages  to  the  gov- 
ernor ; and  besides,  no  stranger  arriving  here  can  tell  whether 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


345 


some  time  or  other  he  may  not  somehow  or  other  require  the 
assistance  of  this  personage.  So,  to  please  my  friend,  I 
went  with  him. 

As  we  entered  the  ante-chamher,  we  heard  in  the  inner 
room  a most  horrible  hubbub.  A footman,  with  a very 
punch-like  expression  of  countenance,  whispered  in  the  con- 
sul’s ear,  “An  ill  day  — a dangerous  moment!”  How- 
ever, we  entered,  and  found  the  governor,  a very  old  man, 
sitting  at  a table  near  the  window,  with  his  back  turned 
towards  us.  Large  piles  of  old  discolored  letters  were  lying- 
before  him,  from  which,  with  the  greatest  sedateness,  he 
went  on  cutting  out  the  unwritten  portion  of  the  paper,  — 
thus  giving  pretty  strong  proofs  of  his  love  of  economy. 
During  this  peaceful  occupation,  however,  he  was  fearfully 
rating  and  cursing  away  at  a respectable-looking  personage, 
who,  to  judge  from  his  costume,  was  probably  connected 
with  Malta,  and  who,  with  great  coolness  and  precision  of 
manner,  was  defending  himself,  for  which,  however,  he  was 
afforded  but  little  opportunity.  Though  thus  rated  and 
scolded,  he  yet  with  great  self-possession  endeavored,  by 
appealing  to  his  passport  and  to  his  well-known  connections 
in  Naples,  to  remove  a suspicion  which  the  governor,  as  it 
would  appear,  had  formed  against  him  as  coming  and  going 
without  any  apparent  business.  All  this,  however,  was  of 
no  use  : the  governor  went  on  cutting  his  old  letters,  and 
carefully  separating  the  clean  paper,  and  scolding  all  the 
while. 

Besides  ourselves,  there  were  about  twelve  other  persons  in 
the  room,  spectators  of  the  bull-baiting,  standing  hovering  in 
a very  wide  circle,  and  apparently  envying  us  our  proximity 
to  the  door  as  a desirable  position,  should  the  passionate  old 
man  seize  his  crutch,  and  strike  away  right  ancl  left.  During 
this  scene  our  good  consul’s  face  had  lengthened  considera- 
bly : for  my  part,  my  courage  was  kept  up  by  the  grimaces 
of  a footman,  who,  though  just  outside  the  door,  was  close 
to  me,  and,  as  often  as  I turned  round,  made  the  drollest 
gestures  to  appease  my  alarm,  by  indicating  that  all  this  did 
not  matter  much. 

And  indeed  the  awful  affair  was  quickly  brought  to  an  end. 
The  old  man  suddenly  closed  it  with  observing  that  there 
was  nothing  to  prevent  him  clapping  the  Maltese  in  prison, 
and  letting  him  cool  his  heels  in  a cell.  However,  he  would 
pass  it  over  this  time : he  might  stay  in  Messina  the  few 
days  he  had  spoken  of,  but  after  that  he  must  pack  off. 


346 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


and  never  show  liis  face  there  again.  Veiy  coolly,  and  with- 
out the  slightest  change  of  countenance,  the  object  of  sus- 
picion took  his  leave,  gracefully  saluting  the  assembly,  and 
ourselves  in  particular,  as  he  passed  through  the  crowd  to 
get  to  the  door.  As  the  governor  turned  round  fiercely,  in- 
tending to  add  yet  another  menace,  he  caught  sight  of  us, 
and  immediately  recovering  himself,  nodded  to  the  consul, 
upon  which  he  stepped  forward  to  introduce  me. 

The  governor  was  a person  of  very  great  age ; his  head 
bent  forward  on  his  chest,  while  from  beneath  his  gray 
shaggy  brows,  black  sunken  eyes  cast  forth  stealthy  glances. 
Now,  however,  he  was  quite  dift’ereut  from  what  he  had  been 
a few  moments  before.  He  begged  me  to  be  seated  ; and 
still  uninterruptedly  pursuing  his  occupation,  asked  me  many 
questions,  which  I duly  answered,  and  concluded  by  inviting 
me  to  dine  with  him  as  long  as  I should  remain  here.  The 
consul,  as  well  satisfied  as  mj’self,  na}’,  eveu  more  so,  since 
he  knew  better  than  I the  danger  we  had  escaped,  made 
haste  to  descend  the  stairs;  and,  for  my  part,  I had  no  de- 
sire ever  again  to  approach  the  lion’s  den. 


Messina, 

Sunday,  May  13,  1787. 

"Waking  this  morning,  we  found  ourselves  in  a much  more 
pleasant  apartment,  and  with  the  sun  shining  brightly,  but 
still  in  poor,  aftlieted  Messina.  Singularly  unpleasant  is  the 
view  of  the  so-called  Palazzata.  a crescent-shaped  row  of 
real  palaces,  which  for  nearly  a quarter  of  a league  encloses 
and  marks  out  the  roadstead.  All  were  built  of  stone,  and 
four  stories  high.  Of  several,  the  whole  front,  up  to  the  cor- 
nice of  the  roof,  is  still  standing,  while  others  have  been 
thrown  down  as  low  as  the  first,  or  second,  or  third  story ; 
so  that  this  once  splendid  line  of  buildings  exhibits  at 
present  with  its  many  chasms  and  perforations,  a strangely 
revolting  appeai-ance,  for  the  blue  heaven  may  be  seen 
through  almost  every  window.  The  interior  apartments  in 
all  are  utterly  destroyed  and  fallen. 

One  cause  of  this  singular  phenomenon  is  the  fact,  that  the 
splendid  architectural  edifices  erected  by  the  rich  tempted 
their  less  wealthy  neighbors  to  vie  with  them,  in  appearance 
at  least,  and  to  hide,  behind  a new  front  of  cut  stone,  the  old 
houses,  which  had  been  built  of  larger  and  smaller  rubble- 
stones,  kneaded  together  and  consolidated  with  plenty  of 
mortar.  This  joining,  not  much  to  be  trusted  at  any  time. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


347 


was  quickly  loosened  and  dissolved  by  the  terrible  earth- 
quake. The  whole  fell  together.  Among  the  many  singular 
instances  of  wonderful  preservation  which  occurred  in  this 
calamity,  they  tell  the  following : the  owner  of  one  of  these 
houses  had,  exactly  at  the  awful  moment,  entered  the  recess 
of  a window,  while  the  whole  house  fell  together  behind  him  ; 
and  there,  suspended  aloft,  but  safe,  he  calmly  awaited  the 
moment  of  his  liberation  from  his  airy  prison.  That  this 
style  of  building,  which  was  adopted  in  consequence  of  there 
not  being  any  quarries  in  the  neighborhood,  was  the  principal 
cause  why  the  ruin  of  the  city  was  so  total  as  it  was,  is 
proved  by  the  fact  that  the  houses  which  were  of  a more 
solid  masonry  are  still  standing.  The  Jesuits’  College  and 
Church,  which  are  solidly  built  of  cut  stone,  are  still  standing 
uninjured,  with  their  original  substantial  fabric  unimpaired. 
But  whatever  may  be  the  cause,  ’the  appearance  of  Messina 
is  most  oppressive,  and  reminds  one  of  the  times  when  the 
Sicani  and  Siculi  abandoned  this  restless  and  treacherous 
district,  to  occupy  the  western  coast  of  the  island. 

After  passing  the  rhorning  in  viewing  these  ruins,  we 
entered  our  inn  to  take  a frugal  meal.  We  were  still  sitting 
at  table,  feeling  quite  comfortable,  when  the  consul’s  servant 
rushed  breathless  into  the  room,  declaring  that  the  governor 
had  been  looking  for  me  all  over  the  city : he  had  invited 
me  to  dinner,  and  yet  I was  absent.  The  consul  earnestly 
entreated  me  to  go  immediately,  whether  I had  dined  or  not, 
— whether  I had  allowed  the  hour  to  pass  through  forgetful- 
ness or  design.  I now  felt,  for  the  first  time,  how  childish 
and  silly  it  was  to  allow  my  joy  at  my  first  escape  to  banish 
all  further  recollection  of  the  C3mlop’s  invitation.  The  ser- 
vant did  not  let  me  loiter : his  representations  were  most 
urgent  and  most  direct  to  the  point ; if  I did  not  go  the  con- 
sul would  be  in  danger  of  suffering  all  that  this  furious  des- 
pot might  choose  to  inflict  upon  him  and  his  countrymen. 

Whilst  I was  arranging  my  hair  and  dress,  I took  courage, 
and,  with  a lighter  heart,  followed,  invoking  Ul^'sses  as  my 
patron  saint,  and  begging  him  to  intercede  in  my  behalf  with 
Pallas  Athene. 

Arrived  at  the  lion’s  den,  I was  conducted  by  a fine  foot- 
man into  a large  dining-room,  where  about  forty  people  were 
sitting  at  an  oval  table,  without,  however,  a word  being 
spoken.  The  place  on  the  governor’s  right  was  unoccupied, 
and  to  it  was  I conducted  accordiuglju 

Having  saluted  the  host  and  his  guests  w'ith  a low  bow,  I 


348 


LETTERS  FROil  ITALY. 


took  my  seat  by  his  side,  excused  my  deljiy  by  the  vast  size 
of  the  city,  and  by  the  mistakes  which  the  unusual  way  of 
reckoning  the  time  had  so  often  caused  me  to  make.  With 
a fiery  look,  he  replied,  that  if  a person  visited  foreign 
countries,  he  ought  to  make  a point  to  learn  its  customs,  and 
to  guide  his  movements  accordingly.  To  this  I answered, 
that  such  was  invariably  my  endeavor,  only  1 had  found  that, 
in  a strange  locality,  and  amidst  totally  new  circumstances, 
one  invariably  fell  at  first,  even  with  the  very  best  intentions, 
into  errors  which  might  appear  unpardonable,  but  for  the 
kindness  which  readily  accepted  in  excuse  for  them  the  plea 
of  the  fatigue  of  travelling,  the  distraction  of  new  objects, 
the  necessity  of  providing  for  one’s  bodil}"  comforts,  and, 
indeed,  of  preparing  for  one’s  further  travels. 

Hereupon  he  asked  me  how  long  I thought  of  remaining. 
I answered  that  I should  like,  if  it  were  possible,  to  stay 
here  for  a considerable  period,  in  order  to  have  the  opportu- 
nity of  attesting,  b}'  my  close  attention  to  his  orders  and 
commands,  my  gratitude  for  the  favor  he  had  shown  me. 
After  a pause  he  inquired  what  I had  seen  in  Messina?  I 
detailed  to  him  my  morning’s  occupation,  with  some  remarks 
on  what  I had  seen,  adding  that  what  most  had  struck  me 
was  the  cleanliness  and  good  order  in  the  streets  of  this 
devastated  city.  And,  in  fact,  it  was  highly  admirable  to 
observe  how  all  the  streets  had  been  cleared  by  throwing  the 
rubbish  among  the  fallen  fortifications,  and  by  piling  up 
the  stones  against  the  houses,  by  which  means  the  middle 
of  the  streets  had  been  made  perfectly  free  and  open  for  trade 
and  tralHc.  And  this  gave  me  an  opportunity  to  pay  a well- 
deserved  compliment  to  his  excellency,  by  observing  that  all 
the  ]\Iessinese  thankfully  acknowledged  that  they  owed  this 
convenience  entirely  to  his  care  and  forethought.  “•  They 
acknowledge  it,  do  they,”  he  growled  : " well,  every  one  at 
first  complained  loudly  enough  of  the  hardship  of  being  com- 
pelled to  take  his  share  of  the  necessary  labor.”  1 made 
some  general  remarks  upon  the  wise  intentions  and  lofty  de- 
signs of  government  being  011I3'  slowly  understood  and 
ai)preciated,  and  on  similar  topics.  He  asked  if  I had  seen 
the  CImrch  of  tlie  .Jesuits:  and  when  I said  no,  he  rejoined 
that  he  would  eause  it  to  be  shown  to  me  in  all  its  splendor. 

During  this  conversation,  which  was  interrupted  with  a 
few  pauses,  the  rest  of  the  company.  I observed,  maintained 
a deep  silence,  scarcely  moving  except  so  far  as  was  abso- 
lutely necessary  in  order  to  place  the  food  in  their  mouths. 


LETTERS  ERO.^I  ITALY. 


349 


And  so,  too,  when  dinner  was  over,  and  coffee  served,  they 
stood  round  the  walls  like  so  many  wax  dolls.  I went  up  to 
the  chaplain,  who  was  to  show  me  the  church,  and  began  to 
thank  him  in  advance  for  the  trouble.  However,  he  moved 
off,  after  humbly  assuring  me  that  the  command  of  his  ex- 
cellency was  in  his  eyes  all-sufficient.  Upon  this  I turned  to 
a young  stranger  who  stood  near,  who,  however.  Frenchman 
as  he  was,  did  not  seem  to  be  at  all  at  his  ease  ; for  he,  too, 
seemed  to  be  struck  dumb  and  petrified,  like  the  rest  of  the 
company,  among  whom  I recognized  many  faces  who  had 
been  auy  thing  but  willing  witnesses  of  yesterday’s  scene. 

The  governor  moved  to  a distance  ; and,  after  a little  while, 
the  chaplain  observed  to  me  that  it  was  time  to  be  going.  I 
followed  him ; the  rest  of  the  company  had  silently  one  by 
one  disappeared.  He  led  me  to  the  gate  of  the  Jesuits’ 
Church,  which  rises  in  the  air  with  all  the  splendor  and  really 
imposing  effect  of  the  architecture  of  these  fathers.  A 
porter  came  immediately  towards  us,  and  invited  us  to  enter  ; 
but  the  priest  held  me  back,  observing  that  we  must  wait  for 
the  governor.  The  latter  preseutl}'  arrived  iu  his  carriage, 
and,  stopping  in  the  piazza,  not  far  from  the  church,  nodded 
to  us  to  approach,  whereupon  all  three  advanced  towards 
him.  He  gave  the  porter  to  understand  that  it  was  his  com- 
mand that  he  should  not  only  show  me  the  church  and  all  its 
parts,  but  should  also  tell  me  iu  full  the  histories  of  the 
several  altars  and  chapels  ; and,  moreover,  that  he  should 
open  to  me  all  the  sacrists,  and  show  me  their  remarkable 
contents.  I was  a person  to  wffiom  he  was  to  show  all  honor, 
and  who  must  have  every  cause  to  speak  well  aud  honorably 
of  Messina  on  his  return  home.  “Fail  not,’’  he  then  said, 
turning  to  me  with  as  much  of  a smile  as  his  features  wore 
capable  of,  — “ Fail  not  as  long  as  you  are  here  to  be  at  my 
dinner-table  iu  good  time.  You  shall  always  find  a hearty 
welcome.’’  I had  scarcely  time  to  make  him  a most  respect- 
ful reply  before  the  carriage  moved  on. 

From  this  moment  the  chaplain  became  more  cheerful, 
and  we  entered  the  church.  The  castellan  (for  so  we  may 
well  name  him)  of  this  faiiy  palace,  so  little  suited  to  the 
worship  of  God,  set  to  w'ork  to  fulfil  the  duty  so  sharply 
enjoined  to  him,  when  Kniep  and  the  consul  rushed  into  the 
empty  sanctuary,  and  gave  vent  to  passionate  expressions 
of  their  jo_y  at  seeing  me  again,  and  at  liberty,  who,  they 
had  believed,  would  by  this  time  have  been  iu  safe  custody. 
They  had  sat  iu  agonies  until  the  roguish  footman  (whom 


350 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


probably  the  consul  had  well-feed)  came  and  related  with  a 
hundred  grimaces,  the  issue  of  the  affair ; upon  which  ex- 
cessive joy  took  possession  of  them,  and  they  at  once  set 
out  to  seek  me,  as  their  informant  had  made  known  to  them 
the  governor’s  kind  intentions  with  regard  to  the  church, 
and  thereby  gave  them  a hope  of  finding  me. 

We  now  stood  before  the  high  altar,  listening  to  the  enu- 
meration of  the  ancient  rarities  with  which  it  was  inlaid  : 
pillars  of  lapis  lazuli  fluted,  as  it  were,  with  bronzed  and 
with  gilded  rods  ; pilasters  and  panellings  after  the  Floren- 
tine fashion  ; gorgeous  Sicilian  agates  in  abundance  ; with 
bronze  and  gilding  perpetuall}^  recurring  and  joining  the  whole. 

And  now  commenced  a wondrous  counterpoiuted  fugue. 
Kuiep  and  the  consul,  dilating  on  the  perplexities  of  the  late 
incident,  and  the  showman,  enumerating  the  costly  articles 
of  the  well-preserved  splendor,  broke  in  alternately,  both 
fully  possessed  with  their  subject.  This  afforded  a two-fold 
gratificatiou.  I became  sensible  how  lucky  was  my  escape, 
and  at  the  same  time  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  produc- 
tions of  the  Sicilian  mountains,  on  which,  in  their  native 
state,  I had  already  bestowed  attention,  here  worked  up  and 
emplo3’ed  for  architectural  purposes. 

Mj”  accurate  acquaintance  with  the  several  elements  of 
which  this  splendor  was  composed,  helped  me  to  discover 
that  what  was  called  lapis  lazuli  in  these  columns  was  proba- 
bly nothing  but  calcara,  though  calcara  of  a more  beautiful 
color  than  I remember  to  have  ever  seen,  and  withal  most 
incomparabl}^  pieced  together.  But  even  such  as  thev’  are, 
these  pillars  are  still  most  liighl}’  to  be  prized  ; for  it  is  evi- 
dent that  an  immense  quantit\'  of  this  material  must  have 
been  collected  before  so  many  pieces  of  such  beautiful  and 
similar  tints  could  be  selected ; and,  in  the  next  place,  con- 
siderable pains  and  labor  must  have  been  expended  in  cut- 
ting, splitting,  and  polishing  the  stone.  But  what  task  was 
ever  too  great  for  the  industry  of  these  fathers  ? 

During  my  inspection  of  these  rarities,  the  consul  never 
ceased  enlightening  me  on  the  danger  with  which  I had 
been  menaced.  The  governor,  he  said,  not  at  all  pleased, 
that,  on  m}’  veiy  first  introduction  to  him,  I should  have 
been  a spectator  of  his  violence  towards  the  quasi  [Maltese, 
had  resolved,  within  himself,  to  pa}’  me  especial  attention ; 
and,  with  this  view,  he  had  settled  in  his  own  mind  a regular 
plan,  which,  however,  had  reeeiA'ed  a considerable  check 
from  my  absence  at  the  veiT  moment  in  which  it  was  first 


LETTEES  FROM  ITALY. 


351 


to  be  carried  into  effect.  After  waiting  a long  while,  the 
despot  at  last  sat  down  to  dinner,  without,  however,  being 
able  to  conceal  his  vexation  and  annoyance,  so  that  the  coni- 
pau}^  were  in  dread  lest  they  should  witness  a scene  either 
on  my  arrival  or  on  our  risiug  from  table. 

Every  now  and  then  the  sacristan  managed  to  put  in  a 
word,  opened  the  secret  chambers,  which  are  built  in  beauti- 
ful proportion,  and  elegantly,  not  to  say  splendidly,  orna- 
mented. In  them  were  to  be  seen  all  the  moveable  furniture 
and  costly  uteusUs  of  the  church  still  remaining,  and  these 
corresponded  in  shape  and  decoration  with  all  the  rest.  Of 
the  precious  metals  I observed  nothing,  and  just  as  little 
of  genuine  works  of  art,  whether  ancient  or  modern. 

Our  mixed  Italian-German  fugue  (for  the  good  father  and 
the  sacristan  chaunted  in  the  former  tongue,  while  Kniep 
and  the  consul  responded  in  the  latter)  came  to  an  end  just 
as  we  were  joined  by  an  officer  whom  I remembered  to 
have  seen  at  the  dinner-table.  He  belonged  to  the  gov- 
ernor’s suite.  His  appearance  was  certainly  calculated  to 
excite  anxiety,  and  not  the  less  so  as  he  offered  to  conduct 
me  to  the  harbor,  where  he  would  take  me  to  certain  parts 
which  generally  were  inaccessible  to  strangers.  M}'  friends 
looked  at  one  another : however,  I did  not  let  mj^self  be 
deterred  b}'  their  suspicions  from  going  alone  with  him. 
After  some  talk  about  indifferent  matters,  I began  to  ad- 
dress him  more  familiarly,  and  confessed  that  during  dinner 
I had  observed  many  of  the  silent  part}^  making  friendly 
signs  to  me,  and  giving  me  to  understand  that  I was  not 
among  mere  strangers  and  men  of  the  world,  but  among 
friends,  and,  indeed,  brothers  ; and  that,  therefore,  I had 
nothing  to  fear.  I felt  it  a duty  to  thank  and  to  request  him 
to  be  the  bearer  of  similar  expressions  of  gratitude  to  the 
rest  of  the  company.  To  all  this  he  replied,  that  they  had 
sought  to  calm  any  apprehensions  I might  have  felt,  be- 
cause, well  acquainted  as  thej’  were  with  the  character  of 
their  host,  they  were  convinced  that  there  was  really  no 
cause  for  alarm  : for  explosions  like  that  with  the  Maltese 
were  but  very  rare  ; and  when  they  did  happen,  the  worthy 
old  man  always  blamed  himself  afterwards,  and  would  for 
a long  time  keep  watch  over  his  temper,  and  go  on  for  a 
while  in  the  calm  and  assured  performance  of  his  dutj', 
until  at  last  some  unexpected  rencontre  would  surprise  and 
cany  him  away  by  a fresh  outbreak  of  passion. 

My  valiant  friend  further  added,  that  nothing  was  more 


352 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


desired  by  him  and  liis  companions  than  to  bind  themselves 
to  me  by  a still  closer  tie  ; and  therefore  he  begged  that  I 
would  have  the  great  kindness  of  letting  them  know  where 
it  might  be  done  this  evening,  most  conveniently  to  imself. 
I courteously  declined  the  proffered  honor,  and  begged  him 
to  humor  a whim  of  mine,  which  made  me  wish  to  be  looked 
upon  during  my  travels  merely  as  a man  : if  as  such  I could 
excite  the  confidence  and  sympathy  of  others,  it  would  be 
most  agreeable  to  me,  and  what  I wished  most ; but  that 
various  reasons  forbade  me  to  form  other  connections. 

Convince  him  I could  not,  for  I did  not  venture  to  tell 
him  what  was  really  my  motive.  However,  it  struck  me  as 
remarkable,  that,  under  so  despotic  a government,  these  kind- 
hearted  persons  should  have  formed  so  excellent  and  so  in- 
nocent a union  for  mutual  protection,  and  for  the  benefit 
of  strangers.  I did  not  conceal  from  him  the  fact,  that  I 
was  well  aware  of  the  ties  subsisting  between  them  and  other 
German  travellers,  and  expatiated  at  length  on  the  praise- 
worthy objects  they  had  in  view,  and  so  onl}'  caused  him 
to  feel  still  more  surprise  at  my  obstinacy.  He  tried  every 
possible  inducement  to  draw  me  out  of  my  incognito.  How- 
ever, he  did  not  succeed,  partly  because,  having  just  escaped 
one  danger,  I was  not  inclined  for  any  object  whatever  to 
run  into  another ; and  partly  because  I was  well  aware  that 
the  views  of  these  worthy  islanders  were  so  very  different 
from  my  own,  that  any  closer  intimacy  with  them  could  lead 
to  neither  pleasure  nor  comfort. 

On  the  other  hand,  I willingly  spent  a few  hours  with  our 
well-wishing  and  active  consul,  who  now  enlightened  us  as 
to  the  scene  with  the  Maltese.  The  latter  was  not  really  a 
mere  adventurer : still,  he  was  a restless  person,  who  was 
never  happy  in  one  place.  The  governor,  who  was  of  a 
great  family,  and  highly  honored  for  his  sincerity  and  habits 
of  business,  and  also  greatly  esteemed  for  his  former  im- 
portant services,  was,  nevertheless,  notorious  for  his  illimit- 
able self-will,  his  unbridled  passion,  and  unbending  obstinacy. 
Suspicious,  both  as  an  old  man  and  a tyrant,  more  anxiou?' 
lest  he  should  have,  than  convinced  that  he  really  had,  ene- 
mies at  court,  he  looked  upon  as  spies,  and  hated,  all  persons 
who,  like  this  Maltese,  were  continually  coming  and  going, 
without  any  ostensible  business.  This  time  the  red  cloak 
had  crossed  him,  when,  after  a considerable  period  of  quiet, 
it  was  necessary  for  him  to  give  vent  to  his  passion,  in  crder 
to  relieve  his  mind. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


353 


Written  partly  at  INIessina,  and  partly  at  Sea. 

Monday,  May  14,  1787. 

Both  Kniep  and  myself  • awoke  with  the  same  feelings : 
both  felt  annoyed  that  we  had  allowed  ourselves,  under  the 
first  impression  of  disgust  which  the  desolate  appearance 
of  Messina  had  excited,  to  form  the  hasty  determination  of 
leaving  it  with  the  French  merchantman.  The  happy  issue 
of  my  adventure  with  the  governor,  the  acquaintance  which 
I had  formed  with  certain  worthy  individuals,  and  n hich  it 
onlj’  remained  for  me  to  render  more  intimate,  and  a visit  I 
had  paid  to  my  banker,  whose  country-house  was  situated 
in  a most  delightful  spot,  — all  this  afforded  a prospect  of  our 
being  able  to  spend  most  agreeably  a still  longer  time  in 
Messina.  Kniep,  quite  taken  up  with  two  pretty  little  chil- 
dren, wished  for  nothing  more  than  that  the  adverse  wind, 
which  in  any  other  case  would  be  disagreeable  enough, 
might  still  last  for  some  time.  Meanwhile,  however,  our 
position  was  disagreeable  enough  : all  had  to  remain  packed 
up,  and  we  ourselves  to  be  ready  for  starting  at  a moment’s 
warning. 

And  so,  at  last,  about  mid-day  the  summons  came  ; and 
we  hastened  on  board,  and  found  among  the  crowd  collected 
on  the  shore  our  worthy  consul,  from  whom  we, took  our  leave 
with  many  thanks.  The  sallow  footman,  also,  pressed  for- 
ward to  receive  his  douceur.  He  was  accordingly  duly 
rewarded,  and  charged  to  mention  to  his  master  the  fact  of 
our  departure,  and  excuse  our  absence  from  dinner.  “He 
who  sails  away  is  at  once  excused,”  exclaimed  he  ; and  then 
turning  round  with  a very  singular  spring,  quickly  disappeared. 

In  the  ship  itself  things  looked  very  different  from  what 
they  had  done  in  the  Neapolitan  corvette.  However,  as  we 
gradually  stood  off  from  the  shore,  we  were  quite  taken  up 
with  the  glorious  view  presented  by  the  circular  line  of  the 
Palazzatqgi  the  citadel,  and  by  the  mountains  which  rose 
behind  the  city.  Cahrbria  was  on  the  other  side.  And  then 
the  wide  prospect  northwards  and  southwards  over  the  straits, 
— a broad  expanse  indeed,  but  still  sliut  in  on  both  sides  by 
a beautiful  shore.  • While  we  were  admiring  these  objects, 
one  after  another,  our  attention  was  diverted  to  a certain 
commotion  in  the  water,  at  a tolerable  distance  on  the  left 
hand,  and  still  nearer  on  the  right,  to  a rock  distinctly  sepa- 
rate from  the  shore.  The^’  were  Scylla  and  ChaiTbdis. 
These  remarkable  objects,  which  in  nature  stand  so  wide 
apart,  but  which  the  poet  has  brought  so  close  together,  have 


354 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


furnished  occasion  to  many  to  make  grave  complaints  of  the 
fabling  of  poetry.  Such  grumblers,  however,  do  not  duly 
consider  that  the  imaginative  faculty  invaiiably  depicts  the 
objects  it  would  represent  as  grand  and  jinpifessive,  with  a 
few  striking  touches  rather  than  in  fulness  of  detail,  and 
that  thereby  it  lends  to  the  image  more  of  character,  solem- 
nity, and  dignity.  A thousand  times  have  I heard  the  com- 
plaint that  the  objects  for  a knowledge  of  which  we  are  origin- 
ally indebted  to  description,  invariably  disappoint  us  when 
we  see  them  with  our  own  eyes.  The  cause  is,  in  every  case, 
the  same.  Imagination  and  reality  stand  in  the  same  relation 
to  each  other  as  poetiy  and  prose  do  : the  former  invariabl}' 
conceives  of  its  objects  as  powerful  and  elevated,  the  latter 
loves  to  dilate  and  expand  them.  A comparison  of  the  land- 
scape painters  of  the  IGth  century  with  those  of  our  own 
day  will  strikingly  illustrate  my  meaning.  A drawing  of 
lodocus  Momper,  by  the  side  of  one  of  Kuiep’s  outlines, 
would  at  once  make  the  contrast  intelligible. 

AVith  such  and  similar  discourses  we  contrived  to  amuse 
ourselves  ; as  the  coasts  were  not  attractive  enough  even  for 
Kniep,  notwithstanding  his  having  prepared  every  thing 
for  sketching. 

As  to  myself,  however,  I was  again  attacked  with  sea- 
sickness ; but  this  time  the  unpleasant  feeling  was  not 
relieved  by  separation  and  privacy,  as  it  was  on  our  passage 
over.  However,  the  cabin  was  large  enough  to  hold  several  - 
persons,  and  thei'e  was  no  lack  of  good  mattresses.  1 again 
resumed  the  horizontal  position,  in  which  I was  diligently 
tended  by  Kniep,  who  administered  to  me  plenty  of  red  wine 
and  good  bread.  In  this  position  our  Sicilian  expedition  pre- 
sented itself  to  my  mind  in  no  very  agreeable  light.  On  the 
whole,  we  had  really  seen  nothing  but  traces  of  the  utterly 
vain  struggle  which  the  human  race  makes  to  maintain  itself 
against  the  violence  of  Nature,  against  the  malicic^s  spite  of 
Time,  and  against  the  rancor  of  its  own  unhappy  divisions. 
The  Carthaginians,  the  Greeks,  the  Romans,  and  the  many 
other  races  which  followed  in  succession,  built  and  desti'oyed. 
Selinus  lies  methodically  overthrown  by  art  and  skill ; two 
thousand  years  have  not  sufficed  to  throw  down  the  temples 
of  Girgenti ; a few  hours — nay,  a few  minutes — were  suffi- 
cient to  overwhelm  Catania  and  Messina.  These  sea-sick 
fancies,  however,  I did  not  allow  to  take  possession  of  a 
mind  tossed  up  and  down  on  the  waves  of  life. 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


355 


At  Sea, 

Tuesday,  May  15,  1787. 

My  hope  of  having  a quicker  passage  back  to  Naples,  or  at 
least  of  recovering  sooner  from  my  sea-sickness,  has  been 
disappointed.  Several  times  I attempted,  at  Kniep’s  recom- 
mendation, to  go  up  on  deck  : however,  all  enjoyment  of  the 
varying  beauty  of  the  scene  was  denied  me.  Only  one  or 
two  incidents  had  power  to  make  me  forget  a while  my  gid- 
diness. The  whole  sky  was  overcast  with  a thin,  vapory 
cloud,  through  which  the  sun  (whose  disk,  however,  was  not 
discernible)  illuminated  the  sea,  which  was  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful blue  color  that  ever  was  seen.  A troop  of  dolphins 
accompanied  the  ship  : swimming  or  leaping  they  managed 
to  keep  up  with  it.  I could  not  help  fancying,  that  in  the 
deep  water,  and  at  the  distance,  our  floating  edifice  must 
have  seemed  to  them  a black  point,  and  that  they  had  hurried 
towards  it  as  to  a welcome  piece  of  booty  and  consumption. 
However  that  may  be,  the  sailors  did  not  treat  them  as  kind 
guides,  but  rather  as  enemies : one  was  hit  with  a harpoon, 
but  not  hauled  on  deck. 

The  wind  continued  unfavorable  ; and,  by  continually  tack- 
ing and  manoeuvring,  we  only  just  managed  not  to  lose  way. 
Our  impatience  at  this  only  increased  when  some  experienced 
persons  among  the  passengers  declared  that  neither  tlie  cap- 
tain nor  the  steersman  understood  their  business.  The  one 
might  do  very  well  as  captain,  and  the  other  as  a mariner: 
they  were,  however,  not  fit  to  be  trusted  with  the  lives  of  so 
many  passengers  and  such  a valuable  freight. 

I begged  these  otherwise  most  doughty  personages  to  keep 
their  fears  to  themselves.  The  number  of  passengers  was 
very  great,  and  among  them  were  several  women  and  children 
of  all  ages  ; for  every  one  had  crowded  on  board  the  French 
merchantman,  without  a thought  of  any  thing  but  of  the 
protection  from  the  pirates  winch  the  white  flag  assured  to 
them.  I therefore  represented  to  these  parties  that  the 
expression  of  their  distrust  and  anxiety  would  plunge  in  the 
greatest  alarm  those  poor  folks  who  had  hitherto  placed  all 
their  hopes  of  safety  in  the  piece  of  uneolored  and  unem- 
blazoned linen. 

And  in  reality,  between  sky  and  sea  this  white  streamer, 
as  a decided  talisman,  is  singular  enough.  As  parting  friends 
greet  each  other  with  their  white  waving  handkerchiefs,  and 
so  excite  in  their  bosoms  a mutual  feeling  — which  nothing 
else  could  call  forth  — of  love  and  affection  divided  for  a 


356 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


while,  so  here  in  this  simple  flag  the  custom  is  consecrated. 
It  is  even  as  if  one  had  fixed  a handkerchief  on  the  mast  to 
proclaim  to  all  the  world,  “ Here  comes  a friend  from  across 
the  sea. 

Revived  from  time  to  time  with  a little  wine  and  bread,  to 
the  annoyance  of  the  captain,  who  said  that  I ought  to  eat 
what  was  bargained  for,  I was  able  at  last  to  sit  on  deck, 
and  occasionally  take  part  in  the  conversation.  Kniep  man- 
aged to  cheer  me,  for  he  could  not  this  time,  by  boasting  of 
the  excellent  fare,  excite  my  euerg}’ : on  the  contrary,  he 
was  obliged  to  extol  my  good  luck  in  having  no  appetite. 

TTedxesdav,  May  16,  and  Thuksday,  May  17,  1787. 

And  thus  mid-day  passed  without  our  being  able,  as  we 
wished,  to  get  into  the  Bay  of  Naples.  On  the  contrary,  we 
were  continually  driven  more  and  more  to  the  west : and  our 
vessel,  nearing  the  island  of  Capri,  kept  getting  farther  from 
Cape  Minerva.  Every  one  was  annoj'ed  and  impatient : we 
two,  however,  who  could  contemplate  the  world  with  a 
painter’s  eye,  had  enough  to  content  us,  when  the  setting  sun 
presented  for  our  enjoyment  the  most  beautiful  prospect  that 
we  had  yet  witnessed  during  our  whole  tour.  Cape  Minerva, 
with  the  mountains  which  abut  on  it,  lay  before  our  e^’es 
in  the  brilliant  coloring  of  sunset ; while  the  rocks  which 
stretched  southwards  from  the  headland  had  already  assumed 
a bluish  tint.  The  whole  coast,  stretching  from  the  cape  to 
Sorrento,  was  gloriousl}'  lit  up.  Vesuvius  was  visible  : an 
immense  cloud  of  smoke  stood  above  it  like  a tower,  and  sent 
out  a long  streak  southwards,  — the  result,  probabh',  of  a 
violent  eruption.  On  the  left  lay  Capri,  rising  perpendicularly 
in  the  air ; and,  by  the  help  of  the  transparent  blue  halo,  we 
were  able  distinctly  to  trace  the  forms  of  its  rocky  walls.  Be- 
neath a perfectly  clear  and  cloudless  sky,  glittered  the  calm, 
scarcely  rippling  sea,  which  at  last,  when  the  wind  died 
awa}%  lay  before  us  exactly  like  a clear  pool.  'We  were 
enraptured  with  the  sight.  Kniep  regretted  that  all  the  colors 
of  art  were  inadequate  to  conve}'  an  idea  of  this  hannony, 
and  that  not  even  the  finest  of  English  pencils  would  enable 
the  most  practised  hand  to  give  the  delicacy  of  the  outline. 
I,  for  my  part,  convinced  that  to  possess  even  a far  poorer 
memorial  of  the  scene  than  this  clever  artist  could  produce, 
would  greatly  contribute  to  my  future  enjoyment,  exhorted 
him  to  strain  both  his  hand  and  C3’e  for  the  last  time.  He 
allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded,  and  produced  a most 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


357 


accurate  drawing  (which  he  afterwards  colored)  ; and  so 
bequeathed  to  rue  a proof,  that  to  truly  artistic  powers  of 
delineation,  the  impossible  becomes  the  possible.  With 
equally  attentive  eyes  we  watched  the  ti’ausition  from  even- 
ing to  night.  Capri  now  lay  quite  black  before  us  ; and,  to 
our  astonishment,  the  smoke  of  Vesuvius  turned  into  flame, 
as,  indeed,  did  the  whole  streak,  which,  the  longer  we 
observed  it,  became  brighter  and  brighter.  At  last  we  saw 
a considerable  region  of  the  atmosphere,  forming,  as  it  were, 
the  back  ground  of  our  natural  picture,  lit  up,  and,  indeed, 
lightening. 

We  were  so  entirely  occupied  with  these  welcome  scenes, 
that  we  did  not  notice  that  we  were  in  great  danger.  How- 
ever, the  commotion  among  the  passengers  did  not  allow  us 
to  continue  long  in  ignorance  of  it.  Those  who  were  better 
acquainted  with  maritime  affairs  than  ourselves  were  bittterly 
reproaching  the  captain  and  his  steersman.  By  them  bun- 
gling, they  said,  they  had  not  only  missed  the  mouth  of  the 
straits,  but  they  were  very  nigh  losing  the  lives  of  all  the 
passengers  intrusted  to  them,  cargo  and  all.  We  inquired 
into  the  grounds  of  these  apprehensions,  especially  as  we 
could  not  conceive  how,  during  a perfect  calm,  there  could 
be  any  cause  for  alarm.  But  it  was  this  very  calm  that 
rendered  these  people  so  inconsolable.  “ We  are,”  thej' 
said,  “ in  the  current  which  runs  round  the  island,  and 
which,  by  a slow  but  irresistible  ground-swell,  will  draw  us 
against  the  rugged  rocks,  where  there  is  neither  the  slightest 
footing,  nor  the  least  cove  to  save  ourselves  by. 

Made  more  attentive  by  these  declarations,  we  contem- 
plated our  fate  with  horror.  For,  although  the  deepening 
night  did  not  allow  us  to  distinguish  the  approach  of  danger, 
still  we  observed  that  the  ship,  as  it  rolled  and  pitched,  was 
gradually  nearing  the  rocks,  which  grew  darker  and  darker 
iqDon  the  eye,  while  a light  evening  glow  was  still  plaj^ing  on 
the  water.  Not  the  slightest  movement  was  to  be  discerned 
in  the  am.  Handkerchiefs  and  light  ribbons  were  constantly 
being  held  up,  but  not  the  slightest  indication  of  the  much 
desired  breath  of  wind  was  discernible.  The  tumult  became 
every  moment  louder  and  wilder.  The  women  with  their 
children  were  on  deck  praying,  not  indeed  on  their  knees,  for 
there  was  scarcely  room  for  them  to  move,  but  lying  close 
, pressed  one  upon  another.  Every  now  and  then,  too,  they 
would  rate  and  scold  the  captain  more  harshly  and  more  bit- 
terly than  the  men,  who  were  calmer,  thinking  over  every 


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LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


chance  of  helping  and  saving  the  vessel,  They  reproached 
him  with  every  thing,  which,  dm-ing  the  passage  up  to  this 
point,  had  been  borne  with  silence,— the  bad  accommoda- 
tion ; the  high  passage-money ; the  scantj’  bill  of  fare ; his 
own  manners,  which,  if  not  absolutely  surly,  were  cer- 
tainly forbidding  enough.  He  would  not  give  an  account  of 
his  proceedings  to  any  one : indeed,  ever  since  the  evening 
before  he  had  maintained  a most  obstinate  silence  as  to  his 
plans,  and  what  he  was  doing  with  his  vessel.  He  and  the 
steersman  were  called  mere  money-making  adventurers,  who, 
having  no  knowledge  at  all  of  navigation,  had  managed  to 
buy  a packet  with  a mere  view  to  profit,  and  now,  bj-  their 
incapacity  and  bungling,  were  on  the  point  of  losing  all  that 
had  been  intrusted  to  their  care.  The  captain,  however, 
maintained  his  usual  silence  under  all  these  reproaches,  and 
appeared  to  be  giving  all  his  thoughts  to  the  chances  of  sav- 
ing his  ship.  As  for  myself,  since  I had  always  felt  a greater 
horror  of  anarchy  than  of  death  itself,  I found  it  quite  im- 
possible to  hold  my  tongue  any  longer.  I went  up  to  the 
noisy  railers,  and  addressed  them  with  almost  as  much  com- 
posure of  mind  as  the  rogues  of  Malsesine.  I represented  to 
them,  that,  by  their  shrieking  and  bawling,  they  must  con- 
found both  the  ears  and  the  brains  of  those  on  whom  all  at 
this  moment  depended  for  our  safety,  so  that  they  could 
neither  think  nor  communicate  with  one  another.  All  you 
have  to  do,  I said,  is  to  calm  yourselves,  and  then  to  offer  up 
a fervent  prayer  to  the  Mother  of  God,  asking  her  to  inter- 
cede with  her  blessed  Sou  to  do  for  yon  what  he  did  for  his 
apostles  when  on  Lake  Tiberias.  The  waves  broke  over  the 
boat  while  the  Lord  slept,  but  who,  when,  helpless  and  incon- 
solable, they  awoke  him,  commanded  the  winds  to  be  still, 
and  who,  if  it  is  only  his  heavenly  will,  can  even  now  com- 
mand the  winds  to  rise. 

These  few  words  had  the  best  effect.  One  of  the  men  with 
whom  I had  previously  had  some  couvei’sation  on  moral  and 
religious  subjects,  exclaimed,  “ M7i,  il  Balcmne!  Benedetto  il 
Balarme!”  and  thej'  actually  began,  as  they  were  already 
prostrate  on  their  knees,  to  go  over  their  rosaries  with  more 
than  usual  fervor.  They  were  able  to  do  this  with  the  greater 
calmness,  as  the  sailors  were  now  tiyiug  an  expedient,  the 
object  of  which  was,  at  any  rate,  apparent  to  every  eye. 
The  boat  (which  would  not,  however,  hold  more  than  six  or 
eight  men)  was  let  down,  and  fastened  by  a long  rope  to  the 
ship,  which,  b}"  dint  of  hard  rowing,  they  hoped  to  be  able  to 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


359 


tow  after  them.  And,  indeed,  it  was  thought  that  they  did 
move  it  within  the  current ; and  hopes  began  to  be  entertained 
of  soon  seeing  the  vessel  towed  entirely  out  of  it.  But 
whether  their  efforts  increased  the  counter-action  of  the 
current,  or  whatever  it  was,  the  boat  with  its  erew  at  the 
end  of  the  hawser  was  suddenly  drawn  in  a kind  of  a bow 
towards  the  vessel,  forming  with  the  long  rope  a kind  of 
bow,  — or  just  like  the  lash  of  a whip  when  the  driver  gives 
a blow  with  it.  This  plan,  therefore,  was  soon  given  up. 
Prayer  now  began  to  alternate  with  weeping,  — for  our  state 
began  to  appear  alarming  indeed,  — when  from  the  deck  we 
could  clearly  distinguish  the  voices  of  the  goatherds  (whose 
fires  on  the  rocks  we  had  long  seen) , crying  to  one  another, 
“ There  is  a vessel  stranding  below.”  They  also  said  some- 
thing else,  but  the  sounds  were  unintelligible  to  me : those, 
however,  who  understood  their  patois,  interpreted  them  as 
exclamations  of  joy,  to  think  of  the  rich  booty  they  would 
reap  in  the  morning.  Thus  the  doubt  we  had  entertained 
whether  the  ship  was  actually  nearing  the  rocks,  and  in  any 
immediate  danger,  was  unfortunately  too  soon  dispelled  ; and 
we  saw  the  sailors  preparing  boat-poles  and  fenders,  in  order, 
should  it  come  to  the  worst,  to  be  ready  to  hold  the  vessel 
off  the  rocks,  — so  long,  at  least,  as  then-  poles  did  not 
break,  in  which  case  all  would  be  inevitably  lost.  The  ship 
now  rolled  more  violently  than  ever,  and  the  breakers  seemed 
to  increase  upon  us.  - And  my  sickness  returning  upon  me  in 
the  midst  of  it  all,  made  me  resolve  to  return  to  the  cabin. 
Half  stupefied,  I threw  myself  down  on  my  mattress,  still 
wit'll  a somewhat  pleasant  feeling,  which  seemed  to  me  to 
come  over  from  the  sea  of  Tiberias,  for  the  picture  in 
Merian’s  pictorial  Bible  kept  floating  before  my  mind’s  eye. 
And  so  it  is  : our  moral  impressions  invariably  prove  strong- 
est in  those  moments  when  we  are  most  driven  back  upon 
ourselves.  How  long  I lay  in  this  sort  of  half  stupor  I 
know  not,  for  I was  awakened  by  a great  noise  overhead : 
I could  distinctly  make  out  that  it  was  caused  by  great  ropes 
being  dragged  along  the  deck,  and  this  gave  me  a hope  that 
they  were  going  to  make  use  of  the  sails.  A little  while 
after  this  Kniep  hurried  down  into  the  cabin  to  tell  me  that 
we  were  out  of  danger,  for  a gentle  breeze  had  sprung  up  ; 
that  all  hands  had  just  been  at  work  in  hoisting  the  sails,  and 
that  he  himself  had  not  hesitated  to  lend  a hand.  We  were 
visibly  getting  clear  off  the  rocks  ; and,  although  we  were  not 
entirely  out  of  the  cuii’ent,  there  was  now  good  hope  of  our 


360 


LETTERS  FROM  ITALY. 


being  able  to  make  way  against  it.  All  was  now  still  again 
overhead ; and  soon  several  more  of  the  passengers  came 
below  to  announce  the  happy  turn  of  affairs,  and  to  lie  down. 

AYhen,  on  the  fourth  day  of  our  voyage,  I awoke  early  in 
the  morning,  I found  myself  quite  fresh  and  well,  just  as  I 
had  been  at  the  same  period  of  the  passage  from  Naples  ; so 
that  on  a longer  voyage  I may  hope  to  get  off  free,  after 
paying  to  the  sea  a three  days’  tribute  of  sickness. 

From  the  deck  I saw  with  no  little  delight  the  island  of 
Capri,  at  a tolerable  distance  on  our  lee,  and  perceived  that 
the  vessel  was  holding  such  a course  as  afforded  a hope  of 
our  being  able  ere  long  to  enter  the  gulf,  which,  indeed,  we 
very  soon  afterwards  accomplished.  And  now,  after  passing 
a hard  night,  we  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  same  ob- 
jects as  had  charmed  us  so  greatly  the  evening  before,  in  a 
reversed  light.  AYe  soon  left  this  dangerous  insular  rock  far 
behind  us.  AYhile  yesterday  we  had  admired  the  right  hand 
coast  from  a distance,  now  we  had  straight  before  us  the 
castle  and  the  city,  with  Posilippo  on  the  left,  together  with 
the  tongues  of  laud  which  run  out  into  the  sea  towards  Procida 
and  Ischia.  Every  one  was  on  deck ; foremost  among  them 
was  a Greek  priest,  enthusiastic  in  the  praises  of  his  own 
dear  East,  but  who,  when  the  Neapolitans  on  board,  who 
were  rapturously  greeting  their  glorious  country,  asked  him 
what  he  thought  of  Naples  as  compared  with  Constantinople? 
very  pathetically  replied,  “ MncAe  questa  ^ uva  cittib!” 
(This,  too,  is  a city.) 

AA^e  reached  the  harbor  just  at  the  right  time,  when  it  was 
thronged  with  people.  No  sooner  were  our  trunks  and  the 
rest  of  our  baggage  unshipped  and  put  on  shore,  when  they 
were  seized  by  two  lusty  porters,  who,  scarcely  giving  us 
time  to  say  that  we  were  going  to  put  up  at  Moricoui’s,  ran 
off  with  the  load  as  if  with  a prize,  so  that  we  had  difficulty 
in  keeping  them  in  view  as  they  darted  through  the  crowded 
streets  and  bustling  piazzas.  Kuiep  kept  his  portfolio  under 
his  arm ; and  we  consoled  ourselves  with  thinking  that  the 
drawings  at  least  were  safe,  should  these  porters,  less  honest 
than  the  poor  Neapolitan  devils,  strip  us  of  what  the  breakers 
had  spared. 


